


Certain as the Sun (and the Moon)

by Saathi1013



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-20 02:18:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17013687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: Gaby Teller has had to fend for herself ever since her father - the town's blacksmith and artificer - disappeared almost a year ago.  Then, after an unwelcome proposal from the town charmer, she finds herself drawn into an adventure beyond anything she ever expected.(An MFU / Beauty & the Beast fusionfic, wherein Gaby is Belle, Illya is the Beast, and Napoleon bears only aslightresemblance to Gaston.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InNovaFertAnimus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNovaFertAnimus/gifts).



> Many thanks to K, who is welcome to as much space in my Mess as she desires, for doing a lot of the beta work here.
> 
> This fic was originally begin as a response to [this prompt on the MFU kinkmeme (kinkfromuncle)](https://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=769152). Immense gratitude to InNovaFertAnimus for giving me the go-ahead to finish it for this exchange. As you can tell, it is MUCH longer than I initially anticipated...
> 
> This fic is mostly influenced by the 1991 animated _Beauty & the Beast_, though it has elements of Robin McKinley's Beauty sprinkled in, as well. I also found [this photoset](http://c0ffeebee.tumblr.com/post/128407171037/tale-as-old-as-time-the-man-from-uncle) to be immensely inspiring.

 

"No," Gaby says for the tenth time in as many minutes, pulling her basket closer and trying to wend her way through the uncooperative crowd in the marketplace. People keep stopping to stare, and she can hear whispers following in her wake.  She's so _done_ with these provincial busybodies that she could just _scream._   

But she can't; she must keep up appearances, can't afford to alienate potential customers.  They already think she's strange for taking up the mantle of town blacksmith and artificer, but her father's been tinkering with devices her whole life to improve the efficiency of the shop. She knows her way around as well as he. She has a better touch with delicate pieces, like clocks and watches.  If only Gaby’s fellow townspeople placed as much faith in her father’s inventions as he deserved, she'd be doing just fine.

Instead of, for instance, dodging the attentions of the most pompous, preening, self-absorbed blowhard in the county.  She ducks into a side alley and hears the Mayor’s son calling her name.

"I said _no_ ," she says, spinning on her heel to face him.

"I'm sorry." Napoleon looks genuinely apologetic — but she's seen his act with other girls far too often to fall for anything he says.  "I thought women _liked_ public declarations of affection."

"Women," she says, poking him in the sternum with one finger to punctuate her words, "are _not_. identical."  He takes a step back, frowning.  "We're not _machines_ , you can't just swap our names out like gears in your flowery little speeches."

"I know," he says.  "You're much prettier than the rest of them."  

Gaby stares at him, unimpressed.  Were she not the object of his attentions, it'd be entertaining to see the usually-composed and silver-tongued rake fumbling for words.  Not that she’ll let him know that.

"And cleverer.  You read more than anyone else I know."

She rolls her eyes and turns her back.  "Goodbye, Napoleon," she says, continuing towards home.

"Wait," he says.  "Wait, please, you can't say my offer wasn't tempting - you'd be taken care of, and, and- I'd let you keep your shop!"

"Let me?" She halts, leveling a glare at him over her shoulder.  " _Let_ me?"

"No.  I meant.  Hell," he says, sighing.  "Gaby. I do mean it. You're beautiful, and clever, and interesting.  I want to get to know you better, and I don't want to see you lose everything.  Please, come to dinner with me tonight. Let me _try_."

"No," she says, seeing his shoulders droop.  "Not tonight. But I'll give you a chance - _one_ chance. _If_..."  

"Anything," he replies promptly.

Gaby thinks about it for a moment.  "Bring me a book I've never read before."  And with that, she leaves him alone in the alley.

 

* * *

 

“Hell,” Napoleon says again after she’s gone.  He’s not illiterate, but he knows Gaby’s test is going to be well nigh impossible.  

For as long as he’s known her - their whole lives, roughly, given the size of their town - she’s always had a book within reach, even when she’d been at work in the smithy.  The library contains more than one tome singed by errant sparks, thanks to her. Rumor has it that she’s got stacks of books in every room of her house, and that the bookseller goes to _her_ when he’s having a difficult time finding something by a particular author.

Napoleon could ride to the city.  He’d gladly take the day and a half to get there, if it guaranteed success. But then he’d be faced with eliminating _everything she’s ever read_ from his options.  Does _she_ know everything she’s ever read?  She’s sharp enough to recognize it if she sees it, surely.

He’s doomed.

Trudging back to his manor, he lets himself ponder why he’s pursuing her.  It could be the challenge; that always adds zest. She’s pretty, but that shouldn’t merit a spontaneous _proposal_ in the town square.  An overture to courtship, maybe, but marriage?

He’d meant it, though.  She’s interesting, and the thought of her destitute genuinely perturbs him.  Since her father’s disappearance less than a year ago — or, more accurately, since he’d found out ten months ago that it had been _her_ father who’d disappeared — he’d kept an eye on her.  

At first, it had been idle curiosity, sparked by seeing her work alone at her father’s forge though she’d been dwarfed by the contraptions she’d navigated with grace and no mean skill.  Then it had been worry, when he’d heard that she was struggling financially. Now, he’s so used to looking for her that his day isn’t complete without seeing her.

Maybe he’d gotten tired of her indifferent smile, the way her eyes would skim over him as if he were just another person in the crowd.  Maybe he’d wanted _her_ to look forward to seeing _him_ for a change.  Like most women would.  

 _Hell,_ he thinks. _I don’t need to prove anything._

His mood isn’t helped when he arrives home and runs into his father in the hall.  “Good, you’re back,” the Mayor says in greeting. “We’ve got that meeting tonight with those tradesmen from the city that want to use our ferries.  I need you to-”

“I know,” Napoleon says.  “Charm them, then fleece them.  I could do it in my sleep.”

“Well, don’t fall asleep on me tonight,” his father says, “and don’t flirt with any of the wives this time, it draws attention to the fact that you’re still unwed, and they might start to suspect you have a bastard or two running around to throw a wrench in the business.”  He frowns. “You don’t, do you?”

“No!” Napoleon says, appalled.

“Good. I won’t have our fortune frittered away on blackmail payments to any of your whores.  Bad enough I had to pay through the teeth to cover up that incident with the duchess’ maid last year.”

“Yes, I remember,” Napoleon says.   _And you never let me forget it,_ he doesn’t add, knowing the cost of courting his father’s ire.  “If that’s all, I ought to get ready for this evening.”

“Fine, fine, go,” his father says, waving him off.

Napoleon heads to the staircase, going up to his room — and then, when he hears the door to his father’s study close, turns right back around and slips off to the stables.

 

* * *

 

“Have you heard?” Thomas asks, leaning over the fence as she works on his cart. “The Mayor’s son is still missing.”

It’s been a week, and it’s all everyone’s been talking about.  A week after her father disappeared, many still didn’t know, and those that did, no longer cared to talk about it.  Gaby leans harder into the file than she probably needs to, and the rusted bolt finally gives way. “I’ve heard,” she says, then gets the pedal drill to clean out the threads.

“My brother George says he’s run off with some girl, and he’ll be back when he gets bored.”

“Maybe he got lost while he was hunting,” Gaby says.  “Got thrown from his horse and it kicked him in the head.”

“Think it would be an improvement?” Thomas brays a laugh at his own joke.  She gives him a terse smile and redoubles her efforts.

She regrets it later, of course, shoulders aching by the time the wheel’s back on its axle, running smooth and straight.  At least Thomas pays promptly, and in coin instead of harvest shares. She needs to eat now, not four months from now.

The rain barrel’s full, so she takes a long drought from the dipper and splashes some water on her face. There are hoofbeats on the road, uneven like the horse is limping.  It’s thrown a shoe, maybe. She wipes her hands on her apron and goes out to see who it is.

She recognizes the horse before she does the slouched rider.  “Oh my god,” she says. “Napoleon?”

He slides gracelessly from his saddle; she sees there are deep marks on his saddlebags, as if from long thorns or… claws?  The horse is bleeding from matching scratches on its flank, exhausted, but skittish as she approaches. She shushes it, catching the reins, talking quietly, easing it over to the trough and tying it up to the hitch before turning back to the bedraggled man.

He looks worse than his horse.  “Wolves,” he explains, waving her off.  “But.” He fumbles at the buckle of the saddlebag and pulls out a blocky oilskin parcel, presenting it with the sorry shade of a flourish.

Gaby takes it, bemused, picking apart the knots in the binding string until the oilcloth falls open.

“Well?” he asks as she gapes.  “Do you know it?”

“...no.”  She doesn’t even think she can _read_ it; most of the pages seem to be filled with gibberish, where the lavish illustrations don’t sprawl across the pages.  She flips to the front and finds what looks like a name: _Jacobus Hořčický de Tepenec_.  “I don’t recognize the author, either.”

The smile Napoleon gives her is bone-weary but triumphant.  “And there’s plenty more where that came from,” he informs her.  “So, what are you doing for dinner?”

And then he collapses into the dirt.

 

* * *

 

“Somehow, I doubt this is what you had in mind,” Gaby says, steadying the bowl of broth he’s lifting to his lips.  She’s ensconced him on her couch and given him a cursory once-over. He’s filthy and exhausted and dehydrated, but mostly in one piece aside from a set of welts along his thigh.  She’d bet it matches up with the scrapes on his saddlebags and the cuts on his horse, but his riding leathers proved tough enough to protect his own hide.

 _Wolves, indeed,_ she thinks dubiously.

“It’s not exactly haute cuisine,” Napoleon says, smiling, “but you let me in your home, that’s… something, isn’t it?”

“I can turn you right back out, if you prefer.”

He groans piteously.  “Please, let me rest, I need my strength to go back out into the cold night.”

“It’s only two-thirty in the afternoon, and it’s June.”  She pauses. “You’ll need your strength for your father, though, if rumor is to be believed.  He’s sworn to throw you in the public stockade this time.” She catches the spoon before it slips from his trembling fingers.  “Ah, that’s what I thought. You’ll be glad to know I didn’t send word to him that you were back.”

“So you _do_ have a heart,” Napoleon says lightly.

“Oh, I do.  But it’s clockwork,” she says.  “Didn’t they tell you? Cold, and calculating.”

He smiles, leaning in.  “Need someone to wind you up?”

Gaby drops the spoon back in the bowl, and the broth splashes in his face.  “If I did, it wouldn’t be you.” She stands and brushes down her apron.

“Oh.” He wipes his cheek with a corner of the quilt.  “I haven’t earned a little credit? After I stole that book from—”

She whirls on him just as he realizes his mistake.  “You _stole_ it?  From whom?”

“It’s,” he tries, then he sets the bowl aside on the table, pushing himself up to a more-or-less sitting position.  “There’s an abandoned castle in the forest, about half a day’s ride away. Unpleasant terrain, marshy and with great prickling thickets everywhere.  I thought, if it was that hard to get to, maybe it hadn’t been looted. Someone might have left something behind.”

Gaby frowns.  “There aren’t any royal estates that close.”  If there were, Napoleon’s family wouldn’t get away with half of what rumor says they do.

“Not on official records.”  Napoleon’s eyes go unfocused with the effort of recall.  “I had to climb over the hedge, the gates were rusted shut, and inside, it was… almost pristine.  The gardens were still neat and the fountains were still running.” He shakes his head, as if clearing it.  “The castle was open, though, abandoned and overgrown. It was all _empty_.”  He takes a deep breath.  “But. I found a room that seemed inhabited.  There was a fire crackling in the hearth, and a pair of plush armchairs, and a table in between holding a couple of filled wine glasses and a book.  That book.” He nods towards it. “Like the place was waiting for me…” Napoleon looks down at his hands, swallowing hard.

“So you took the book and ran.”

“I _left_ ,” he corrects, “at a reasonable pace, given the circumstances.”

“Fair enough,” she concedes.  “I don’t know if I would have made it that far.  Which means you’ll have to come with me.”

“I beg your pardon?” he asks.

“We’re returning this, first thing in the morning. Don’t you know _anything_ about magic?”

“The Fae hate blacksmiths.” He ticks the familiar points off on his fingers. “You can’t hurt someone with magic worse than they’ve hurt you without suffering thrice over for it, and every spell has an ending.”

“Well, yes.  But more to the current point, you don’t steal magical objects unless you want to get cursed.”

His forehead crumples up.  “You think that book is magical?”

“Napoleon, I don’t recognize that language.  Do you know how many languages I speak? Do you know how many more I _read?_ ”  She shakes her head.  “No, you walked into an enchanted castle and walked out with an enchanted book, and something chased you for it.”

“Wolves,” he tells her again.  “I didn’t see what tried to snag me, but I heard wolves, the whole way back.”

“You’re a thief and a liar,” she says, not as an accusation but as a statement of fact.  “So bring your gun, if it was a wolf, but I don’t want that book under my roof for any longer than it has to be.”

“Then dinner - a _real_ dinner?” he asks, wry instead of hopeful.

“Deal.” They shake on it.

 

* * *

 

Gaby reins her horse in at the gate.  It didn’t seem so terrible, getting here, no marsh, no briars.  “No wolves,” she adds aloud. Their mounts are jumpy; Napoleon’s is downright skittish, its back rippling every so often as if it’s being beset by flies.  “How long did it take you to get to the castle and back?” she asks.

“A few hours, maybe,” he hazards.

“You were gone a whole week,” she says.

Napoleon laughs.  “I wasn’t.”

“You were.”  His eyes go wide, but he follows her lead when she dismounts.  “How did you get in?” she asks, surveying the imposing gate and the high, wild hedge.

“Over the wall.” He points to the left.  “I’d be happy to help you.”

Gaby’s glad she put on trousers this morning.  “Fine,” she says with a sigh. “But you’ll lose a hand if it goes astray.”  There’s a gust of cold wind that smells faintly of iron and of flowers, and something creaks over by the entrance.  “...wait.”

“Oh, hell,” he says, getting his gun.

“I thought you said these were rusted shut.” She walks over to the gates.  They swing open at her touch, shrieking in shrill protest but going easily enough.

“They were!”

“Someone wants their book back,” she murmurs, and walks in.  Shaking his head, Napoleon follows, keeping his firearm at the ready, just in case.

The grounds themselves are as he’d described: impossibly neat gardens and a great hulking castle with spires and turrets and buttresses all crumbling and slowly being eaten by the creeping flora.

Gaby takes a deep breath, once and then again, focusing on the sweetness of the air and the merry trickle of the fountains.  “I smell roses.”

“They’re everywhere in the gardens,” Napoleon points out.  “Do you have a favorite color?”

“For roses?” she asks.  “Yellow.” Gaby’s mother had once grown a yellow rosebush in the back garden, but no one else had known how to tend it, so it eventually faded and passed, following its owner.

“Ah!” Napoleon reaches out towards a nearby bush of sunshine-bright blossoms.  As he does, there’s a snap of a twig and a sudden deafening

**_ROAR_ **

filling the air, furious and feral and immense.  A great blur of brown and crimson launches itself at them, teeth bared and paws outstretched, razor-sharp claws glinting in the morning light.

Napoleon ducks, rolls under the arc of its leap, grabs Gaby’s hand and they run.

 

* * *

 

Their flight leads from the gardens, around a fountain, past the stables, through a gap in a low stone wall and into a courtyard, around a well, under a curtain of vivid fuchsias hanging from a stone arch and into a space so suddenly dark that they scramble to a stop, tucking themselves out of sight in the shadows.  Pressing her sleeve over her mouth to muffle her gasps as she tries to catch her breath, Gaby waits for her eyes to adjust, listening for signs of their pursuer over the pounding of her heart.

Napoleon looks much more composed, flushed and breathing hard, but there’s a spark in his eyes and the ghost of a grin at the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t tell me you _enjoy_ this?” she hisses.

“Have you ever gotten chased by a boar while hunting?” he asks, and when she shakes her head, he shrugs.  “Not all that different.”

There’s a deep, resonant howl out in the garden, like a mountain voicing its displeasure.  Gaby lifts her eyebrows.

“...maybe it’s a _little_ different,” Napoleon concedes.

She can start picking out details in their surroundings now: multiple hearths, pits in the nearby wall with sunlight filtering dimly down through one of the chimneys; broad tables standing crooked on warped and split legs; scattered and dented pots and pans in the corners along with the detritus of animals nesting.  A warmer, stronger light highlights the steps of a wooden staircase that spirals up into the stone like a worm screw.

Something crashes and splinters outside.  “Up we go,” Gaby mutters, and Napoleon follows.

 

* * *

 

The staircase leads to a narrow hall, which leads to a second, narrower hallway that splits off in two directions; the warm light emanates from a room off to the left, and the right leads deeper into the darkness.  Gaby scowls, resenting being led around by an empty building, of all things, but she knows magic tends to have its own way whether she cooperates or no.

“What do you think that was?” she asks in a whisper, cautiously creeping down the hall to the left.

“The former owner might have had a pet lion?”  Napoleon follows with his back to her, watching the dim passages for pursuit.  He doesn’t sound convincing — or convinced.

“Guardian chimera, maybe,” she muses.  “But sphinxes usually ask riddles before trying to eat you.  And there weren’t any wings.”

“Not all sphinxes have wings. Kemetian ones don’t.”

Gaby stops in the hall, and Napoleon bumps into her.  “How do you know that?”

“My family transports a great many things,” he informs her loftily.  “Including art.”

“Smuggles, you mean,” she says scornfully.

“There’s no real difference. Aside from whether it appears on official tax rolls, and that’s a mere formality.”

Gaby rolls her eyes.  Everyone knows his family profits significantly for overlooking that ‘formality.’  Sooner or later, the King will find out, and it won’t be pretty. Then again, it’s entirely possible they both won’t live to see that day.  She lets it lie.

The light is coming from a cosy sitting room, tidy mostly for the fact that it’s almost bare.  There’s a rug with a faded pattern in its well-worn pile, ragged fringe lying neatly as if it were just brushed down, and a merrily-crackling fire in the hearth.  Aside from the dusty bookshelves, the walls are bare, and the curtains somewhat moth-eaten.

Nearly as Napoleon described, there are chairs surrounding a small table that holds filled wine glasses.  The crystal is spotless, the liquid a rich merlot free of dust, and the chairs all look comfortable and inviting, if mismatched in size.

“Three seats,” Gaby observes, standing transfixed in the doorway.  “Not two.”

“ _Fantastic_.”  Napoleon sighs.

It begs the question: who else is expected?  Their unseen host, or another guest? Gaby doesn’t plan on staying around long enough to find out.  She pulls the book from her shoulder bag and cautiously enters the room, heading for the table.

There’s a low rumble behind her, like stone grinding on stone.  Gaby turns just in time to see the beast pounce on Napoleon, the crack of the gun followed by the splintering of wood as their momentum takes them through the wall, into the next room, and out of sight.

 

* * *

 

The beast has Napoleon wrapped in its great limbs as they roll across the floor.  It snarls and snaps its teeth, but Napoleon jams the discharged gun into its maw sideways, keeping its jaw from closing on his neck.  The wood cracks and the metal bends, but it holds just long enough.

“Stop!” Gaby says, hopelessly.  Some guardian creatures can understand speech, but most only listen to their masters or mistresses, not the interlopers they’re set to target.  “Stop, _please_.”

Astonishingly, the beast does, tossing the gnarled remains of the gun to one side with a shake of its maned head, but it keeps Napoleon pinned to the ground with one great paw on his chest.  “ _Thief_ ,” it growls.

Gaby wets her lips and swallows hard.  It can speak to her; it’s willing to listen.  That’s something, at least. “I know,” she says, holding out the item in dispute.  “We brought it back. He’s _sorry_.”

Napoleon lifts his eyebrows, and she juts her jaw out at him.

“Trespassers,” the Beast says.  “Thieves.” It snatches the book from her hands.

Now that she’s regained a small measure of composure, Gaby is free to notice that the Beast is nothing like she’s ever seen before.  Lion, yes, but also bear and boar and something _horned_.  And its eyes… its eyes flash blue, fury less feral than its bared fangs.  Almost human.

There’s a heavy tangle of crimson cloth wrapped around its shoulders, a glint of gold caught in its folds.  It takes her a minute to realize that it’s a cloak-pin. The beast is wearing _clothing,_ after a fashion.

“Wait,” she says, reaching out.  “We’re sorry. We didn’t think anyone lived here.”

Any _one_ , not any _thing_.  Three chairs, three glasses of wine.  The Beast shifts back, not like a cat or a dog sitting but like a man on his knees, resting on his heels.  Napoleon scrambles backwards, to his feet, still cornered but no longer pinned.

“Gaby…” he says in a wary drawl, hand dropping to the hilt of his dagger.

“Don’t,” she says.  “This is our _host_.”

She thinks - she _thinks_ \- the beast might be smiling, at that.  It’s hard to tell. It rises to its feet, and it’s tall, so tall it dwarfs Napoleon, who’s not a small man by any stretch of the imagination.  “This is my home,” it confirms. “And not only did this one—” it nods at Napoleon "–trespass on my land and steal one of my books, but he was about to take one of my roses, defacing my garden.  Why should I not kill him for his offences?”

“I never intended—” Napoleon flattens himself against the wall as the Beast levels a glare his way.

“Unintentional harm is still _harm_.  Why should I not kill both of you?” the Beast says.

“Don’t you _dare—_ ” Napoleon says, but Gaby can see this is going to end up bloody, fast.

“Do what you want with me,” she says, “but let him go.”  Napoleon’s posturing will get him killed; his silver tongue is sharp enough to cut his own throat, in this place.  Gaby can be patient, she can be careful, she can wait and plan and escape.

“Hrm,” the Beast says.  Its eyes look at her, and soften somewhat.  “Very well. He may go if you stay. There are conditions to being my guest, but in exchange, I will guarantee your comfort.”

“You can’t—” Napoleon says.  “Gaby, be _reasonable_.”

“What are the conditions?” she asks.

 

* * *

 

The first condition was, of course, that Gaby make no attempt to escape.  Fair enough. There are more ways to leave than sneaking off into the woods in the dead of night, anyways.  The Beast may tire of her company in a week, given how well she gets along with her usual neighbors, and ask that she go.

Condition number two: she has free rein of the grounds, save the western wing of the castle.  She doesn’t plan on staying long enough to find that an inconvenience. It does pique her curiosity, but she knows better than to trespass where magical dangers lurk, unlike _some_ people.

The third condition: she must have dinner with the Beast every night.

It is this last that stymies her. What reason does it have? What are its dinners like? Will it hunt for their meal, and expect her to eat as it must, from some raw carcass?  She tries to imagine the Beast shaping its paws to delicate silverware and almost laughs at the absurdity.

Instead she says: “Yes.  All right. I agree.”

Napoleon sighs, closing his eyes as if pained.  It’s a binding vow, in a place like this, suffused with magic as it is.  (There’s a reason fae don’t like blacksmiths - magic is repelled by that much cold iron.  But Gaby is far from her smithy, here.)

“Then I swear to your safety and comfort, as best as I am able, for as long as you abide by your agreement, and your _friend–_ ” the Beast says this with a snarl "–is free to go.”

Napoleon scowls back at it, his earlier lack of composure masked by defiance.  “And what if I refuse to leave?”

“You will go,” the Beast says, gnashing its teeth at him.  “One way or the other.” It reaches for him.

Gaby darts between them, trusting that its vow will hold even if she puts herself in harm’s way.  “No, please, don’t hurt him.” She turns around, the back of her neck prickling at the potential danger hovering there.  “Just go, Napoleon.”

Napoleon draws himself up to his full height.  “I can’t let you be punished for my sake, Gaby,” he says, genuine regret in his voice.

“I’ll be fine,” she says.  “I’ll see you again someday, I’m sure.”

“Good.” He brushes dust off his vest.  “Because you still owe me dinner.”

“You’ll get it.” On impulse, she curls her fingers around his lapel and kisses his cheek.  “Please go,” she whispers. He might be a rake and a thief, but he doesn’t deserve to be torn to shreds.  “ _Please_.”

His eyes are wide and startled when she draws away, and he gives a stilted nod.  “All right.”

With one last reproachful look at the Beast, Napoleon leaves.

 

* * *

 

The trick to avoiding magical repercussions is not getting caught up in things like _binding oaths to supernatural creatures_ in the first place.  Napoleon knows better; he’d hoped that Gaby did, too, but admittedly, she’d been put in a tight spot.

He steadfastly refuses to dwell on his part in putting her there.  He’ll admit it, but he won’t _brood_ about it.

Not when he has far more productive uses of his time.  Such as taking advantage of not being bound by any of the promises he’d just witnessed.  

Sure, the Beast had sworn that he was free to go, but Napoleon hadn’t promised to leave.

Moreover, Gaby had sworn that she wouldn’t trespass on the western wing, but Napoleon had made no such oath.  And if the Beast wants a place avoided, then that’s probably the first place Napoleon should look to find a way to free Gaby from her captivity.

Every spell has an ending, after all.

The castle is like a bloody maze, though, and he’s starting to suspect that the hallways are moving around on him.  He’s pretty sure that he’s passed the same staircase landing three times - he recognizes the broken vase in the corner - even though he’s been counting his turns.  And his compass is no help; the needle spins lazily but never settles for more than a moment, as if the whole building is rotating.

He stops in one shadowy alcove, keeping an eye and an ear out for the Beast, and sighs.  “Look,” he says, to no one in particular, hoping the magic shaping the castle will respond, “I have no intention of harming your master.  I simply want to free my friend.” Something groans a few floors up, like a roof making overtures to collapse. “I’m worried about her. Can you at least… show me that I have nothing to fear, for her sake?”

Something squeaks softly nearby, and Napoleon risks a glance out into the hallway.  A door stands ajar where he’d swear there hadn’t been one before.

He takes a deep breath and a leap of faith.

 

* * *

 

They are alone.

Gaby stares at the Beast; the Beast stares back.  If she didn’t know any better, she’d say it was _wary_ of her.

“Do you—” she starts, then bites her lip, considering.  “Do you have a name?”

The Beast turns its head away, its face falling into shadow.  “I did. I was called… Illya.”

It’s a strange name, old-fashioned, like what royal cousins name their sons to assert their fading aristocracy, or what nouveau-riche ladies name their dogs.  Certainly not what Gaby expected.

But then, would ‘George’ be any better?  She smiles at her own folly.

“My name is Gaby,” she tells it.  A dreadful thought occurs to her. “Do… do you get many visitors?”

“No,” Illya says.

“About a year ago, did an… an older man, about so tall,” she gestures, “come by on a big palomino horse, with a cart?”

“I saw him pass the grounds,” Illya tells her.  “But he did not trespass. He continued north, deeper into the forest.”

The relief that washes over her is mixed; she is not the captive of her father’s murderer, but the mystery of his disappearance grows more tangled.  The last she’d seen of him herself, he’d been headed east, to the next town over, not into the forest. He had no reason to be anywhere near here.

“Who was he?” Illya asks, voice gentle.

She blinks, surprised.  “...my father. He’s been missing.”

“You thought I—”  It pauses. “I understand.  But I swear to you, I did not harm him.”

She nods, believing it.  Illya still has the book clutched to its chest.  “I’m sorry about that, by the way,” she says, gesturing to it.  “Napoleon was trying to impress me.”

“With a book?”

“I… I enjoy reading.”

At this, she sees what must be a smile on Illya’s face; as terrible as all those teeth are, it’s good to know it _can_ smile.  “Do you?”  It holds out one massive paw, and she stares at it, uncomprehending.  “May I show you something?”

“Um,” she says.  “I suppose?”

She places her hand in its paw and it leads her from the room, down the corridor, and across what must have once been the great hall of the castle, its roof caved in and open to the sky, tendrils of greenery cascading down in the sunlight that streams through the great gash in the ceiling.  The floor is cracked and caked with mud and leaves, but there is a well-worn path through the detritus that shows pale marble beneath, and it is this that they follow, to a great set of double doors as tall as Gaby’s entire house, chimney and all.

The doors open at a touch, into a dark, cavernous space that Gaby can barely discern the details of, after the brilliance of the room behind them.  He leads her forward, and says, “Light.”

Candles flicker on, all around them, and Gaby gasps.  She hadn’t even considered that the rare book might have been a part of a library.  It’s _immense_.

“It is at your disposal,” Illya tells her.  “The whole castle is.”

“Except the western wing,” she murmurs, dampening her own enthusiasm a bit. Reminding herself that she isn't truly free, here.

Illya inclines its head in acknowledgement.

There is a stack of books on a nearby side table, and Gaby gives them a glance.  Fairy stories, contract law, a history of the royal family… Perusing the nearest shelves, she can tell that the whole collection is equally eclectic.  She almost walks into a spiral staircase, she’s so engrossed.

Glancing up, she notices the _second storey_.  She'd thought it a vaulted ceiling.

“ _Oh_ ,” she sighs.  “This is incredible, Illya.  Thank you.”

The creature’s face is difficult to read, but it looks pleased.  

 

* * *

 

The western wing doesn't seem like much, at first.  It’s as run-down as everything else he's seen, eerie sitting room aside.

Then Napoleon finds the gallery, and his heart skips a beat before he tamps down his acquisitive impulses.  The paintings are in appalling condition, anyway: some have water damage from hanging on a cracked and moldering wall, many are faded by sunlight and weather streaming through the broken windows, and a few have even been ripped down, gashes torn through the wallpaper in a familiar pattern.

 _Clawmarks_.

One painting is slashed to ribbons in its frame, more viciously than the others.  Napoleon stoops to piece what he can together and sees a fair-haired young nobleman, eyes vibrantly blue.  Whoever he’d been, he'd been very handsome.

The Beast must have hated him very much.

Napoleon gathers what he can and tucks the scraps in his pocket for later.  Someone might remember the man.

A shimmer of light at the end of the hallway catches his eye and he moves towards it.  A double door leads to what was once a stately study. Beneath the accumulated grime, Napoleon can make out smooth dark wood on all the walls, with intricate carvings edging the coffered ceiling, which itself still bears traces of gilt accents, now tarnished and dull.

The furniture is all kindling, broken and smashed - save for one table by the window, which holds a marble pedestal topped with a bell jar, its glass clear and unclouded.

A golden glimmer hovers within.   _Truly_ hovers, for as he draws closer, Napoleon can see a pocket watch floating in midair, perfectly suspended within its protective dome and gleaming with the strange light that comes only with enchantment.

“Hel _lo_ ,” Napoleon says.  His fingers itch.

He thinks of the book, and of the rose, and reconsiders.

He scrutinizes the watch instead.  It is very finely made, an engraved pattern of roses circling a shield with a lion salient - an old variation of the crest of the royal family, used now only by distant relatives.  Below the crest is a banner with one word in ornate script.

“Decennium,” Napoleon murmurs.   _Ten years…_  An anniversary gift?  From the royal family? Or—

Maybe he’s getting used to being pounced.  Maybe the Beast makes a noise as it leaps. Because when it lands, Napoleon’s already rolled out of its way — right into the table, knocking both it and the jar over.

The Beast roars and twists, already coiling for another lunge, as Napoleon cuts himself on the broken glass, scrabbling for hope and coming up with the watch.

“Don’t—” the Beast snarls.  

The watch practically hums with magic in Napoleon’s palm.  “Don’t what?” he asks, shifting back and away.

“Please,” the Beast says, making a visible effort to gentle its voice.  “Give it back.”

“Why?” Napoleon asks, closing his fingers more tightly.  “What is it to you?”

The Beast’s face contorts and Napoleon gets ready to run in case it attacks again.  “... _life_ ,” it says.

Napoleon lifts his eyebrows.  “So if I break this—”

“ _Please_ ,” it says again, expression desperate despite its fearsome features.

Its eyes are _very_ blue.

“...oh, hell,” Napoleon says.

 

* * *

 

Illya had shown Gaby to her rooms  — a tidy little suite of sitting room, bedroom, and bathroom, all as neat and snug as the drawing room they’d been in before — and then had left her quite abruptly.

She’s never been this alone before.  She’d always had her father, and after his disappearance, there’d still been the occasional customer at the shop, and neighbors, and the people at the market…   She might have disliked most of them, but they were _there_.

Illya’s request for companionship at dinner makes a lot more sense, now.

So long as it doesn’t want to eat _her_.

No.  It had sworn her safety.  She’s being ridiculous.

She’s also pacing circles in the sitting room.

The rooms are well appointed, after a fashion. There’s a needlework stand by the window, which faces south, and a writing-desk, and the bedroom has a vanity with an assortment of perfumes and powders and brushes. The bathroom has an equally-dizzying array of oils and salts beside a tub large enough for two of her.

The hearth had been lit when she'd entered; candles flicker into flame and extinguish as she moves from room to room.  Everything in this place seems to have its own spark of life.

The door to the armoire creaks open at her approach, fabrics spilling out as if overstuffed in the small storage space.  Curiosity piqued, Gaby opens it all the way.

“Good heavens,” she says.  She's never had so much finery at her fingertips.  Given the magical nature of everything else here, she suspects it will all fit her perfectly.

But none of it is _hers_.

Gaby dresses for dinner in the plainest dress she can find.  It’s ivory silk with delicate lace at the cuffs and neckline, but at least it’s not embellished with gold embroidery or tiny gemstones that wink like stars.  

And she could run in it.  If she _had_ to.

Candles light her path to the dining hall, tiny beacons through the decaying splendor of the castle, which grows gloomier as the sun sets and the shadows grow deeper.

A door opens at her approach, revealing a dining hall that could seat half her town, if it had a mind to.

“Gaby!” Napoleon says when he spots her, getting to his feet.  “You look lovely! Ready for that dinner?”

“Napoleon, are you trying to get yourself killed?  Illya—” Too late, she spots the Beast across the table, glowering but immobile in its seat.

“Illya, is it?” Napoleon asks.  “Very fitting for a former noble heir, albeit one who’s been cursed.”

“What?”  She looks closer at the Beas— at _Illya_ , who refuses to meet her gaze.  “Is this true?”

Illya nods.

“He’s prevented from explaining the parameters of it, but unless I miss my guess, he was cursed for the sins of his father.  Or his father’s father, or— someone in the royal family, at any rate. Scions of powerful families make tempting targets for retribution, as I can unfortunately attest.”

“Hm,” she replies, unimpressed.  “Why hasn’t he killed you?”

“Because the curse… has a fail-safe.”  Napoleon holds up a gleaming pocket watch.  “A time limit and insurance, all in one. I think that when this watch stops, so too will his heart.  And it’s already running significantly more slowly than it ought…”

“Oh, no,” Gaby says, biting her lip and making a quick decision.  “Napoleon, give me the watch.”

Napoleon laughs.  “Darling, this is the only thing keeping him from ripping my throat out.”

“Illya won’t hurt you while I have it.  Will you, Illya?”

Illya rumbles low in his chest, but he shakes his head.

Napoleon relents and relinquishes the watch; Gaby opens the front cover and sees the second hand moving backwards with a _tick... tick... tick_ , like the heartbeat of a great draft horse, too sluggish to keep proper time.   She closes it up and tucks it away in her bodice, feeling the warm thrum of magic through the silk of her chemise, and makes her way around the table.  After a moment’s hesitation, she places one hand on Illya’s where he’s clutching the arm of his chair hard enough to make the wood splinter beneath his claws.

“Illya,” she says gently.  “Can you tell _me_ the rules of your curse?”

Illya shakes his head.  “Can’t.”

She thinks for a moment.  “Can you tell me who cursed you?”

Illya meets her eyes for the first time since she’s entered the room.  “Vinciguerra,” he says, bitterness and loathing in every syllable.

Napoleon whistles.

Gaby frowns.  “Who is that?” she asks.

“The closest thing the shadow fae have to royalty,” Napoleon answers.

She considers this.  “Well, I don't care. We’re still going to save him.”

They both stare at her.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Gaby insists on dinner first.  “I did make you both a promise,” she reminds them.  And she hasn't had anything to eat since breakfast. Some things are better done on a full stomach.

Napoleon wonders about her priorities.  Aloud, and at length.

She blithely ignores him and attends to the covered dishes on the table.  “You didn’t cook all this, did you?” she asks Illya.

Illya rumbles a laugh, and Napoleon’s jaw nearly drops for the second time tonight.  To hear the villagers tell it, she’s as dour and humorless as an ice troll, but here she’s coaxing mirth from a man who’s been cursed with solitude and a bad fur coat for nearly a decade.  “Victoria emptied castle, left me with magic in place of servants. Not so easy, at first.”

“What happened to the servants, to your family?”  Napoleon asks, curious despite himself.

“I… do not know.”

The thing that bothers Napoleon most about this whole curse business — besides nearly losing his head, earlier — is that he didn’t recognize Illya, not his face nor his name; he didn’t know anything about a noble heir his own age that used to live a day’s ride from his home.  

Not only does that take an immense amount of power, but it completely flouts one of the rules of magic: you can’t hurt someone with magic worse than they’ve hurt you without paying the price.  Hitting a princess with a temporary sleeping curse in exchange for a king’s unforgivable offense is one thing. But this is an entire castle’s worth of people, vanished without even the trace of memory.  

Gaby has fixed herself a plate, helping herself to some veal and some truffle risotto and  tasting a little bit of everything as she goes. “Here, try some pate,” she says, nudging a bowl towards Napoleon.  “It’s delicious.”

Napoleon can’t resist the indulgence, though he acknowledges her effort to distract him with a quirk of an eyebrow.  She tucks into her food, nonplussed.

After several healthy forkfuls of _coq au vin_ , she looks to Illya again.  “Can you tell me why she cursed you?”

Oh, _genius_.  Knowing the reason for it might give some clue as to the rules of the curse; the fae love nothing more than poetic justice.

“I…” Illya pauses over his soup.  The less said about _his_ eating habits, the better.  “I was hunting, and I killed a deer,” he says, then adds with visible effort, “a… a white stag.”

“ _No!_ ”  Napoleon says, half horrified and half impressed.

Gaby covers her face with one hand.  “The fae put on those forms to _lure_ you, to get you lost!”

“I did not know,” Illya says.  “I was young. I was… foolish.”  And he’s paying the price.

“You must have made one hell of a shot,” Napoleon comments.  From the anguish in Illya’s eyes, the compliment is no comfort.

Whoever had been the stag, they had to have been very precious to Victoria.

“So there's no chance she will lift the curse,” Gaby muses.

“But we might be able to appeal to her with something she wants more,” Napoleon offers.  It sounds like a weak gambit as he says it, so he adds, “Or find a way to have her reveal the terms, so that we may break the curse ourselves.”

Gaby perks up.  “All we’d need to do is get an audience,” she says.  “What would convince her to…”

Illya straightens in his seat.  “Marry me,” he says to Gaby.

“Tch,” Napoleon says disdainfully.  “No romance?”

“ _You_ have no stones to throw on that front,” Gaby retorts sharply.

“At least I made a gesture!” Napoleon says.

Illya watches both of them.  “Are… are you betrothed?” he asks.

“No!” Gaby says.  “But surely there’s another way.  Um. I mean no offense, Illya, but.  I just met you.”

“What idea do you have, better than that?  If I am engaged to be wed, she _will_ want to see proof.  I guarantee it.”

Napoleon thinks fast, but there’s a ring of truth to Illya’s words he can’t deny.  There’s another option, though: “I could pretend to capture you, bring you back to the town as a trophy…  Victoria would love to gloat at your humiliation, I’m sure.”

Illya growls, warning and rejection at once.

Gaby scowls at him, equally fierce.  “I’d sooner marry _you_ ,” she says, which… stings more than Napoleon expected, honestly.  Then she sighs. “Fine, Illya. I will pretend to be your fiancee until your curse is lifted.  How do we get word to her?”

“She doesn’t live far from here, in the deep forest,” Illya replies.  “It is only a few hours’ ride to the north, but... I cannot leave the grounds myself.  And no horse would carry me… as I am.”

Gaby looks to Napoleon, and he already knows what she’s about to ask.  “No. Absolutely not.”

“Coward,” she challenges.

“You’re asking me to walk right up to the front gates of a shadow fae’s estate so that I can lie to her face, all for the sake of a perilous man-beast whose only reason for not killing me where I stand is because you’re holding his leash,” he reminds her.

“I thought your decency would override your self-interest. I’m sorry I was wrong.”

Napoleon spreads his hands beseechingly.  “Gaby, please. It would be a hard sell even if I _liked_ Peril, here.”

“If you don’t, I’ll find someone who will,” she says.  “Would you agree to carry a letter to someone in the village?”

“I might.”

“Good.  Let me fetch a pen and paper.”

 

* * *

 

Illya follows her out.  “Why are you doing this?”

Gaby pauses, three steps above him on the staircase and still barely at a level with him.  “How old were you when you were cursed?”

“...seventeen,” Illya tells her.

“And you’ve spent most of a decade trapped here, like this,” she gestures to the great hall around them, to his unnatural form. “All on your own, waiting for your clock to run out.  It’s appalling. To be unmoved by that… _I_ would have to be a beast.”  She turns away and continues up the stairs, muttering, “Like Napoleon.”

Illya is silent for a minute.  “Napoleon could have killed me, when he had the watch.”

She doesn’t even look back as she answers this time.  “Don’t mistake absence of cruelty for kindness. Napoleon is still a scoundrel.  I’ll count myself lucky if he delivers this letter for me without sneaking a look at it.”

Arriving at her suite, she makes a beeline for the desk while Illya hovers at the door, looking hilariously out of place for all that it’s _his_ castle.  “What’s your last name?” she asks idly, dipping her pen in the ink.  “If we are to be affianced, then I ought to know it.”

“Kuryakin,” he answers.  She nods, then writes her note quickly on the fine cream paper and tucks it into a matching envelope, using the only stamp at hand to impress a rose into a dollop of melted crimson wax.

When she turns back, Illya is holding one hand out to her.  “I want you to wear this,” he tells her. “It was my mother’s.”

Nestled in his great paw is a ring, delicate by comparison, but the dark pearl that sits atop it is massive.  “I don’t think I should,” she says. It’s probably worth more than the yearly income from her father’s shop.

“It is what I would give the woman I would marry.  Please.”

She takes it from him, and fits it to her finger with reverence.  “I’ll give it back,” she tells him, “when our task is done.”

He stares at her with an unreadable expression, then nods.

 

* * *

 

_I could just leave._

Napoleon pours himself a glass of wine and considers it.  Neither Gaby nor the Beast are here to stop him, to talk him into some fool’s errand that will get him killed.  He is free to go as he pleases.

He imagines what it would be like, to walk away.  To just go home to his life, to all the other women (and men) who wouldn’t give him such trouble, to his business and his idle pursuits…

_God, that sounds dull._

Napoleon helps himself to some of the food.  If nothing else, he can come out of this evening well fed.

Gaby returns, envelope in one hand and Illya a half stride behind her.  “Give this to the sheriff.”

“I don’t know what you expect him to do,” Napoleon comments airily, taking the note, “but as you wish.”  He turns to Illya. “And as for you, Illya: take care of her.”

Illya inclines his great maned head.  “Of course. I am already bound to ensure her safety.”

For the second time that day, Napoleon takes his leave of them both.  If anything, he feels less certain this time, but he has plans to put into motion.  Making his way to the gates, he finds their horses standing where they’d been left. As if only minutes have passed since.

“Magic,” he mutters, and hopes it won't take a week to get home this time.

 

* * *

 

Through the windows of the dining hall, Gaby watches Napoleon leave.  His figure disappears into the twists and turns of the garden paths, but she stays, hoping…  She doesn’t know what she’s hoping. That he will return with assistance within the span of two blinks, or of three?  

 _How foolish_ , she thinks.  But she watches anyway.

Behind her, she hears the clink and clatter of metal against the china.  Curious, she turns to see Illya handling silverware with clumsy care. His grip upon the implements is strange, but it seems to work.

Noticing her astonishment, he ducks his head.  “It took me a long time to relearn.”

“I’m sorry.”  She sits at the seat she’d abandoned and finishes what’s left on her plate.  Her meal hasn’t gone tepid - another enchantment - but it lacks the flavor it had earlier.  Or maybe her mood’s affected her taste.

When they are done, Illya stands, illegible emotion warring in his gaze.  “Will you retire with me to the sitting room?”

Gaby looks over her shoulder at the windows, but dusk has fallen like a great gray curtain over the grounds, only the tallest tree-tops catching the last rays of the remaining light.  “Yes.” _Might as well_ , she thinks.   _There’s nothing to do now but wait._  She doesn’t know what to do if there is no response to her letter.  She imagines that she can feel the ticking of the watch against her ribs, slow but steady.  “How long do we have, before your time runs out?” she asks.

Illya takes a while to answer.  “...not long,” he says at last, through his teeth.  As though it costs him a great deal to convey even that much of the curse’s parameters.

“We’ll find a way.”

Illya nods, but there’s no way to tell if he believes her.

The sitting room he leads her to is the one where they’d first spoken, a tapestry hanging where he’d crashed  through the wall with Napoleon. She can feel a draft from that side of the room. _The castle must have difficulty repairing itself._  

_Perhaps the magic is winding down, like the watch._

The three chairs remain, but there are only two glasses of wine.  The book is gone, replaced by a chess set, pieces arranged across the board as if mid-game.

Gaby settles into her seat, glad for the well-fed fire in the hearth, as the temperature has dropped in time with the sun.  The light silk of her dress does little to shield her from the chill, and she shivers, pushing her feet closer to the fire.

“Are you cold?” Illya asks.  Before she can answer, he mutters something unintelligible under his breath and, with a flourish, pulls a shawl out of thin air, settling it around her shoulders.  She startles at the feel of one of his paws grazing the line of her neck, gone just as quickly as it had touched her. “...I’m sorry.”

“No,” she says firmly.  “You have nothing to be sorry for.  If we’re going to pretend to be betrothed, I shouldn’t jump like that when you touch me.”  She holds up one hand when he’s about to take his own seat. “Hang on.”

He pauses, confusion evident as she gets to her feet again.  “Is something wrong?”

“Yes.”  Gaby tucks the shawl around her shoulders and under her arms, securing it with a knot at the small of her back.  It is tremendously soft, patterned in a subtle paisley of various blues, and smells faintly of mothballs. Not created from nothing, then, but magically whisked from storage somewhere in the castle.  She looks around, frowning. “There’s no music… Um, castle? Can you give us a waltz?”

There is a rustle and a thump from down the hall, and after a moment, a cello, viola, and violin come sailing through the door.  Gaby claps her hands in delight as they find a place in the corner, jostling against each other for position. They shake off dust like dogs in the summertime, settle, and start tuning themselves.

Gaby turns to Illya.  “Will you dance with me?”

Illya takes a step backwards.  “I… don’t think so.”

“Don’t you know how? Or do you not want to?”

“I don’t see… why?”

“We need to be more comfortable with one another.”  She takes his great paws with her hands, and he allows her to guide him into position despite his reluctance.  “If anyone is going to believe that we are engaged.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

She looks up and up and _up_ at him.  He is so very tall.  And he does not stand like a man, more like a bear.

They will make do.

“You won’t,” she tells him, and leads him through the steps.

 

* * *

 

Gaby cannot sleep.

The bed is comfortable enough, if musty.  It’s also easily three times the size of hers at home, with a cresting wave of down pillows at its head and a warming pan beneath the covers at its feet.  It’s all very cosy. But _she can’t sleep_.

She gets up, noticing a robe prominently hung on the door of the armoire as if it’s waiting for her, and pulls it over her nightgown.  Going to the window, she stares out at the gardens.

Napoleon must have reached town by now.   _And then what?_  Will he go back to his life of swindling traders and wooing pretty women?

She is perhaps more disappointed than she has any right to be.  She’s always known what kind of man he is.

But he had seemed willing to put himself in harm’s way for her sake.  He’d been given the chance to escape, but returned to her with valuable knowledge, with the key to her freedom and Illya’s demise.  The watch now sits on her bedside table, gleaming with reproach.

She should have given it back to Illya.  After their dance, maybe, their halting, tentative waltz across the threadbare carpet.  He had been so _careful_.  Nothing like the ferocious Beast who’d pursued them through the garden and tackled Napoleon through a wall.

The ring catches the banked light from the hearth, sullen orange sliding over the polished surface of the pearl.

 _It was my mother’s_ , he’d told her.  And: _Please._

_Marry me._

It tugs at her mind.

 _Is the solution so simple?_  It can’t be.

If it were, would she have said yes? Would she marry a stranger, to save his life?

 _Probably not._  She feels for Illya's plight, assuredly, but she'd rather find another way to undo the curse.

She is left to wonder, staring out at the night, at the mist coiling through the gardens like a serpent, shadows hidden and revealed by its undulations so that it looks like there are figures dancing through the maze of hedges.

 

* * *

 

_Illya Kuryakin has just turned seventeen, and all he has ever known is the remnants of decayed power, disintegrating around him.  He does not miss what he has never known, but he does occasionally yearn for a life that is beyond his reach. A life unbound from the expectations of a title and a fortune that have dwindled into insignificance._

_If he is to live up to his father’s exacting standards, it would be better to have a real inheritance to console him, but they are distant cousins of the throne now, far from the capital and farther from the royal bloodline after so many generations._

_They have the castle (whole wings in disuse), they have their servants (fewer now than before).  They have the taxes from the neighboring town (it is a poor one, and raising their portion would risk revolt).  They have little else._

_They do not have each other._

_Illya’s father is out of favor, and has grown surly with the Royal Court’s rejection, as polite as it had been.  His frustration fuels his treatment of Illya, binding him to ever stricter rules of comportment, of responsibility, of decorum.  His mother is perpetually unwell, her spirit diminished, after she was removed from the society glamour she’d once thrived upon. When she enters a room, it’s like seeing the last mote of a blown candle-flame, clinging listlessly to the wick.  Illya imagines that she trails smoke behind her._

_Illya has just turned seventeen, and he burns with a banked fury._

_And so: he hunts._

_He is permitted this, at least.  It puts fresh meat on the table that does not cut into the meager supplies sent from the townspeople.  It gets him out of the castle and away from his father’s ire._

_It is as close to freedom as he gets._

_When he sees the white stag, it shines like a promise, a beacon in the clearing, its fur shifting with subtler hues like there’s an aurora trapped beneath its skin._

_He imagines its pelt and its antlers - the rack is as wide as his outstretched arms, he’d wager - as gifts for the King, to buy back his favor.  He imagines its meat cured for the winter. His blood sings at the sight of prey worth the effort it will take to bring it down._

_He gives no thought to the dubious murmurs of his companions, to the stories of the wood that his mother once told him at bedtime._

_He draws his bow._

 

* * *

 

Illya wakes, the feel of of a taut bowstring lingering in his fingertips.  He snarls and rolls out of bed, the four posts long ago reduced to one and a half, the curtains in tatters.  He picks up one of the fallen beams and wrings it between both his paws, cracking it to splinters.

It does not help.  He wonders if the dream is a part of his curse, it comes so frequently.  The moment before his greatest folly, so real that sometimes he wakes thinking that he might have the chance to prevent it.  But then reality comes crashing in when his eyes focus on his surroundings, the ramshackle state of his rooms and the castle around him, the unnatural form he’s been trapped within.

If he thought he hated this place, haunted by the memory of prestige, he hates it more now, haunted by the lives that had filled it before being… _erased_ , somehow.

He does not know what happened to his family, to the servants.  One moment they were there, alarmed faces at a distance from the cold fury of the shadow fae that had appeared in the hall, and then there had been a flash of light-

_For savagely killing my consort, you will know loneliness like mine, and you will live it in the skin of a monster, and—_

She had smiled, cold and triumphant.

_—you may only be free of it if you find someone to love you within ten years, else you will perish as my love did._

Every spell has an ending.  This one will end in his death.  He had come to terms with it, years ago.

Except now he’s not so sure.

He’s so unaccustomed to hope that he’s not certain if the gnarled, thorny thing in his chest counts… or if it’s something else.  He only knows that dancing with Gaby, her face turned upwards as she reached for him trustingly, made it churn and tighten until his hands shook.

Illya goes down to the dining hall for breakfast.  Gaby is at the table, and she pushes herself up from her seat, standing to greet him.

The briars twist within his chest.  She is very beautiful, dressed in an emerald green gown with a subtle weave of ivy leaves at the edges.  The snowy white silk of her chemise is so fine he can see her wrists through the fabric. The gold tint of her skin reflects the morning sunlight.  

She is very beautiful, and very brave, meeting his gaze without a flinch, though he is as fully lit by the morning light as she is.  When she looks at him, he does not feel monstrous.

“The witch has invited us to her castle,” Gaby says, lifting an envelope from the table, its seal broken.  “She wishes to host our nuptials.”

“...so soon? How did she find out? Did Napoleon—”

Gaby shakes her head.  “I asked the sheriff to post the banns on my behalf.”

Illya has no words for this.  She has gone _public_ with their charade.  “Your reputation—?” he manages at last, the words coming strangled from his throat.

“I don’t have much of one.”  She gives him a fleeting smile.  “Napoleon is the only man who ever made any overtures towards me, and that, I think, was mostly because of the challenge I presented.  Not for myself.”

She does not sound as bitter about it as she deserves to.

All Illya can say to that is: “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

After breakfast, they make their preparations for the journey.

“I don’t know what to pack,” Gaby confesses at last, finding Illya in the sitting-room.  He has swapped out his threadbare crimson cloak for one of deep forest green, the pin at his throat an emerald-green ivy leaf of enamel and silver.  He even seems to have… brushed his fur?

“Take whatever you like from the wardrobe.  Everything will fit in the trunk I sent for you.”

She looks down, smoothing her skirts, seeing the toes of the green satin slippers below the hems.  “I’m… unaccustomed to this kind of finery.” Again, it’s one of the simplest dresses she could find in the armoire, but it’s nicer than her festival gown at home.

Illya looks baffled.  “I would not have guessed, to see you in it.”  His voice is matter-of-fact, stripped of the cajoling flattery most men would have used with a line like that.  And yet, she feels her cheeks flush. “Let me help you.”

And so they both climb the staircase to her rooms.  Illya has Gaby pull dress after dress from her new wardrobe, holding each up in front of herself.

She objects to his first few choices, a persimmon riding habit of wool so fine it feels like the fleece of a lamb, a day dress in white and yellow silk, and a sapphire blue evening gown with great gathered shoulders and lace applique surrounding the whole bodice.  “I can’t _possibly—_ ”

Illya snorts.  “You can. You _must_.  If Victoria is to believe you will be my wife, you need to look the part.”

When he’s not looking, she packs the ivory dress and blue paisley shawl from the night before.  She ought to have _something_ that resembles comfort and practicality, amidst the sea of stiffly-embroidered silks.

“Now, for jewelry.” He opens a drawer in her vanity and peers inside.

“ _Oh_ ,” she says, as he pulls out long ropes of pearls - one white as snow, and one grey as her ring - and of amber.  He lifts out boxes of earrings that drip diamonds, and of brooches that glitter like starbursts, and of little jeweled clips to put on the toes of her shoes.

And he finds shoes, too, of fine satin and soft buttery calfskin and of mirror-polished hide.  Then scarves, and then gloves, and then she stops him before he starts in on _stockings_.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I can pick those out myself.”  And she’s dubious about the limits of the trunk, though it seems to have been charmed to hold more than it ought to.  “How long are we even going to be there?”

“Days.”  Illya doesn’t meet her eyes.  “A week, at most. No more.” He says it with such certainty that—

 _Oh_.

The watch ticks sluggishly against her ribcage, where she’s tucked it away in her bodice again.

 _We will have to act fast, then._  

In light of that, her wardrobe seems like a trifling concern.  She wears the persimmon riding habit when they leave.

 

* * *

 

Gaby’s horse does not take kindly to the Beast, shying away as they come through the gates.

“Phillippe, you great idiot, it’s _me_ ,” Gaby says, in as kind a voice as she can muster.  The horse’s ears prick up at her voice, but he takes a few steps back when Illya heaves a sigh.

“Mortal beasts… do not care for me.”  The low rumble of Illya’s voice sends Phillippe a few feet further away, right as Gaby was about to grab his reins.

Gaby grits her teeth.  “Be _quiet_ and let me handle this.”

It takes her the better part of an hour of cajoling, bribing Phillippe with an apple from the basket she carries, before he stops pacing circles at the end of his lead, tensing to bolt at Illya’s every slight shift.

Still, she is glad her horse is here.  She’d expected Napoleon to lead him home, or for him to have wandered off - and oh, how she’d regretted not taking proper care of him when she’d left.  She hadn’t even removed his saddle, thinking that returning the book would be a _quick errand_...

But no, Phillippe is here, as fresh as if she’d left him minutes before, the only change in him his response to her new companion.

“...time runs funny around here, doesn’t it?” She pets Phillippe’s soft nose.

“Yes,” Illya answers simply.  Phillippe’s hide shivers, but he stays in place, bumping his chin against her shoulder in reproach.

 _The amount of magic it takes to enchant a whole castle…_ Gaby imagines Illya’s estate as a great stone in the middle of a river, cutting the smooth sweep of current and sending off unexpected eddies around it.  “I think we can go now.” She swings herself into the saddle, glad for the split in her skirts, as she never did have reason to learn side-saddle, and she doesn’t have one at hand anyway.

Phillippe calms more once she’s astride him, as if her presence anchors him.  He even takes a few cautious steps towards Illya, who’s staring at her with wide eyes.  “Are you sure?” Phillippe gives a gentle head shake, but responds to her direction onto the path that continues northwards.

“Sure enough,” she replies.  Illya falls into step beside them on the road, as far to the opposite side as he can manage before hitting stones and weeds.  He does not wear boots, but she imagines his paws are have some sensitivity to them regardless. The trunk follows behind Illya, gliding along as if on an invisible cart.

Illya is quiet as they travel.  Gaby can’t tell if it’s introspection, care for Phillippe’s nerves, or simply a natural response to the hushed forest around them.  Even the sounds of birds and other animals seem distant and muted. Sunshine streams through the canopy in isolated ribbons, illuminating foliage and the occasional flower here and there, but their path is well-shaded and even a little chilly, for all that it’s the height of summer.

And the shadows seem to move strangely, just at the corner of her vision.  Almost as if they are not the only ones travelling today.

 _Poppycock_ , Gaby thinks.  “Where does this road lead?” she asks, attempting to dispel her nerves.

“It used to lead to the capital.”  If Illya notices anything amiss, he doesn’t show it.  His strides are long and even, keeping pace with the horse easily.

“Really?”  Gaby consults her knowledge of the area.  The only other road that leads to the capital from town winds through the foothills of the mountains, tricky to navigate, though it avoids these woods, which her fellow townspeople claim are cursed.  Gaby had never given those rumors much credence, but her current circumstances have changed her opinion somewhat. “That would make it more direct, wouldn’t it?”

“It used to be the main route,” Illya concedes.  “Before.”

 _We are about to head to the stronghold of a fae powerful enough to alter the memory of every tradesman within a hundred miles_ , Gaby wonders.  Her hands tighten on the reins, and Phillippe dances sideways, away from the trees and closer to Illya.  As if there are worse things in the shadows than the beast walking beside them.

“We aren’t alone,” she says, voice quiet.

Illya nods.  “Wolves.” He flicks an ear dismissively.  “They are _hers_.  To make sure we do not stray.”

Gaby laughs.  “Where else would we go?”

“If we were not so foolhardy?  Away.” His voice is low and dolorous.  “This is an impossible plan.”

Gaby wants to reach out and lay her hand on his shoulder, but that might be a bit much for Phillippe to handle.  “Powerful people are often overconfident. Or eager to prove their power. Either way, I might learn what is needed to save you.   _She_ is not bound to silence, after all.”

Illya is silent for a long minute.  “I do not worry for my own sake.”

“Oh.”  Gaby finds she has nothing else to say to that.  His prisoner yesterday, his faux-fiancee today… And he _worries_ for her.  As she does for him.

She wonders what he would be like now, if it had not been for the curse.  Would they have ever met? Her father’s skills would have brought them to the attention of local nobility, she’s sure.  But no noble-born scion would deign to notice a lowly blacksmith’s daughter.

So no, they would not have known each other, if it had not been for the curse, and the challenge she’d given Napoleon.

Gaby frowns. _Infuriating man.  Probably at home, telling everyone he knows about—_ “Oh, _no_ ,” she says aloud.

Illya stops in his tracks.  “What is it?”

“It just occurred to me that we never asked Napoleon to keep quiet about all this.  And if Victoria has spies in town…” She _must_ have, to have learned of the banns so quickly.

“He seemed to care for you.  He would not endanger you if he could help it.”  Illya’s voice is steady and sure.

Gaby huffs out a breath through her nose.  “I’ll have to take your word for that.”

The dark trees part, and they come up over a ridge to find Victoria’s castle, nestled in the valley by a bend in the river.  The water glimmers like gold, but it’s outshone by the gleaming pillars of stone and the great curving white walls of the compound beside it.

It’s the opposite of Illya’s castle in every respect.  Where his is dilapidated, old-fashioned and grim, this castle is a beacon of stately beauty.  Its surfaces are faceted like crystal, climbing upwards in graceful twisting spires, whole and untouched by the elements.  Its windows glint as if polished every morning, and even the ivy that dares climb its facade does so with the delicate patterning of filigree.

Privately, Gaby thinks it’s a bit much.  She cannot imagine a cosy sitting-room anywhere in the place, cannot picture a library within the walls without also suspecting that the books all stand in imposing rows, disdainful of those who would dare disturb their orderliness.  Cannot imagine that the roses in the gardens are as fragrant and as treasured as those Illya guarded so zealously.

It is beautiful, but not a brick of it speaks of being a _home_.

 

* * *

 

They pause, looking down at Victoria’s castle.  Illya can hear the swift drumbeat of Gaby’s pulse, how fast and shallow her breath is.  Her hands fidget on the reins, and her horse digs at the dirt with one hoof, as restless as his rider.

“You’re trembling,” Illya finds himself saying.

Gaby looks askance at him.  “That’s because I’m scared.”

He wants to tell her that they can turn back now, that she needn’t risk herself for his sake, that it’s not worth the danger… but he already knows what she will say to _that_.  For all that she’s easily admitting her fear, she is the bravest woman he’s ever met.

“It will be all right,” he says to her, trying to sound certain.  And he is, to an extent - his primary concern now is keeping her safe to the extent she will allow.

“How do you know?” she asks, eyes wide.

“Because I will be close by.”   _For as long as I can_ , he does not add.  He reaches out and stills one of her hands beneath one of his paws - gently, _gently_ , so as not to scratch her with his claws.  “I will watch over you.”

For a moment, it seems that she forgets he is a Beast.  Her eyes soften and her chin tips up, as if she takes strength from his presence.  If she did not tower over him on the horse, he might think that— he might consider— _No, it’s impossible._  “...thank you, Illya.”

The gnarled, thorny thing in his chest churns again.  “It is the least I can do.” If they succeed, he will owe her his life.  But Illya is beginning to think there are worse things he could lose in the process.

Gaby’s heartbeat still thrums, but there is fresh resolve in her eyes as they set off again down the path, into the valley below.  The Vinciguerra castle looks larger and grander than Illya’s had once been, even at the height of its splendor. He’d visited the capital once, and it reminds him of the King’s palace, only clad in radiant sunshine instead of gloom and smog.

He’d take his ramshackle home over this place any day.

The gilded gates swing open as they approach, without the hand of even a servant to unlock them.  The guard houses are empty.

 _Good_ , thinks Illya.   _Let Victoria use all her magics on trifles, to impress us and to cow us.  And when her tricks are spent, we will strike._

He does not think that they can kill her, of course.  But they can find some advantage, some leverage to hold over her.  Her true name in faespeak, perhaps. Some cold iron - he has some in his cloak-pin - pressed against her bared skin.   _Something_.

The grounds are impeccable.  He suspects Victoria is fond of gardens and well-manicured lawns, given how her curse had kept his own so tidy, too.  The castle looms as they approach, glittering in the midday sun.

Off to the right, the doors to the stables swing open invitingly, and Gaby gives Illya an apologetic look.  “Do you mind waiting? I’ve been neglecting Phillippe.”

“Take all the time you need.” Illya pulls a book from his cloak and settles on the hovering trunk to read.  When the horse doesn’t move, he glances up to see Gaby looking down at him with a broad smile.

“I can’t believe I was ever frightened of you.”

Illya smiles back, baring all his teeth.  Phillippe backs away nervously, but Gaby just laughs.  “I won’t be long,” she tells Illya, and lets Phillippe retreat to the safety of the stables.

It takes five minutes before a shadow steals over his book.  Illya looks up, pleasant greeting dying on his lips as he recognizes Victoria.

“I thought I’d see what was taking so long,” Victoria says.  “Is she _shy_ , your blushing bride-to-be?”

He had forgotten how _tall_ she was.  Seated as Illya is, he has to look up at her, the sun glinting over her left shoulder so that he has to squint to make out the smirk on her face.  And yet, he is not afraid as he once was, when she’d appeared in his home so many years ago. She’s already cursed him to solitude and death, so instead of fear drying his mouth, he finds hot anger flushing through his veins.

He shuts his book - carefully, _carefully_ , so as not to shred the covers - and gets to his feet.  And, as best as he is able, he bows. “Your Excellency.” Fae don’t have titles - none that they deign to share with mortals, at any rate, and they have their own ways of determining relative rank amongst themselves beyond mere bloodline - but they appreciate flattery.

As expected, Victoria lets out a delighted chuckle.  “Oh, Illya, that’s far prettier than our first meeting.  Perhaps you have learned your lesson?”

When he straightens, she is looking up at him with a challenging smile, just a few inches shy of his own height.  It feels good to look _down_ on her.

“I am no longer the child I was,” he retorts, with some emphasis on _child_.

“I suppose not,” she muses.  She turns at the sound of footfalls behind her.  “Oh, it’s Gabrielle! How lovely to meet you, my dear.  Safety, privacy, and comfort to you under my roof.” The old hospitality vow makes the air tighten, static crackling along Illya’s fur.

“Gratitude and respect, your Majesty,” Gaby responds, a thread of uncertainty in her voice as she approaches and curtseys. There is the sensation of a silent bell ringing as the ritual completes.  “You have a beautiful home, and I thank you for inviting me to it.”

“Well, you couldn’t very well have your wedding on the Kuryakin estate, now could you?”  Victoria doesn’t wait for an answer, blithely ignoring how Illya draws breath to respond with an incautious heat.  “Come inside, we’ll speak of the preparations over lunch. You must be famished.”

Gaby gives Illya a pointed look as Victoria turns to lead them inside the castle, and he tamps down his anger with an effort.

 

* * *

 

“I hope you don’t mind, I have another guest in residence at the moment,” Victoria says over her shoulder, striding up a gently-arching staircase with unhurried grace.  Behind her, Gaby finds that she has to quicken her pace to keep up with the taller woman, and she feels both out of breath and overdressed, her persimmon riding habit a garish streak of color next to Victoria’s elegant black and white gown and the pale stonework of the castle.

“Oh?” Gaby schools her voice to avoid revealing the strain in it as they reach the entrance.

Illya follows behind at a more sedate pace.  Or perhaps it’s simply reluctance, given his apparent and justified mood, one which Gaby is wholly sympathetic towards.  But for their plan to work, she must maintain the charade, with or without his help. _His_ ill will can be explained due to his history with this viper, but Gaby has no such excuse.

“His name is Jack Deveny.” Victoria pauses to wait for them both with a small, indulgent smile.  “A merchant who got separated from his caravan when they were attacked in the woods. Wolves, if you can imagine.”

Somehow, Gaby doubts that the incident was as accidental as it sounds.   _Does Victoria waylay travelers often?_ she wonders. _When she’s bored, or when she’s piqued by their presence in her woods?_  “How awful,” she says, widening her eyes.

The doors open, and unlike the invisible magic that took care of the gates and the stables, there are twin figures on either side of the entrance here.  Only, after a moment, Gaby realizes that the figures _aren’t human_.  Nor are they any kind of fae that Gaby recognizes from books.

They’re simply… human _like_ figures, made of gold: two arms, two legs, a torso, and a faceless  head, all moving with the smooth ease of the clockwork visible beneath armor of faceted crystal scales.  Gaby stops in her tracks to admire them. They are _beautifully_ detailed, aside from the lack of facial features.  The fingers are perfectly articulated, and the gold is polished to a mirror gleam, no sign of grease or oil marring the surface of their armor.

“Oh, those?” Victoria says, noticing her interest.  “My little mannequins, aren’t they clever? Fairy gold for the armature and diamond for the armor.  Rather sturdy.” This is an understatement - fairy gold is rumored to be stronger than steel, though weak to cold iron, and the armor would protect it from _that_.  

Gaby peers closer, looking for springs and counterweights.  “What powers them?”

“Alchemy,” Victoria says with a vague little wave.  “Little engines in their chests,” and now that Gaby knows to look for it, she does indeed spot a little ceramic contraption deep within the mannequins, pulsing like a beating heart, “quite autonomous from my own magic.”

Beside her, Illya is less impressed, glowering at the mannequins.  “They must have taken you some time to craft,” he offers, a grudging concession to civility.

Victoria laughs.  “Time, yes, but not mine,” she answers lightly, moving on, leading them deeper into the main hall, adding, “That’s what _patronage_ is for.”

Tearing her eyes away from the mannequins, Gaby notices the grandeur of their surroundings.  The floor is an intricate mosaic of tiles depicting the night sky, subtle variations implying the streak of comets, the glow of stars, and the soft undulation of the Milky Way.  Black marble columns hold up a ceiling that’s at least two and a half storeys tall, a broad double staircase leading to balcony entrances on each floor above. Crowning everything is a slanted, faceted-crystal ceiling that throws color in bright arcs of brilliance across the room, lifting the dark palette into radiant warmth.

She feels even more out of place than before, dwarfed by both her companions and the space.   _What am I doing here?  What was I thinking?_

As if he senses her panic, Illya appears at her side, offering his arm.  His gaze is gentle, and in the scattered sunlight, he looks much less terrible than at their first meeting: his fur is not so thick across his face, only his canines seem to be so pointed and prominent, and his horns aren't so gnarled and heavy.  She can almost, _almost_ picture the man he ought to have been, beneath it all, and she finds that she minds his beastly aspects less than she did.

All the more so by contrast to Victoria’s polished perfection.  Gaby prefers shaggy and good over Victoria’s invisible rot.

She takes Illya’s arm with a grateful smile.

“You said something about lunch?” she asks Victoria brightly.

“Right this way.” There is something brittle in Victoria’s smile as she watches them both.

The dining room is no less grand - dark and pale woods in intricate geometric patterns, culminating in a grand granite fireplace at the far end, crowned by a glittering chandelier - but the effect is rather lost when Gaby recognizes the man who stands from the table as they enter.

_Napoleon!_

Gaby almost says something, but the instant she draw breath to speak, Illya’s hand is on hers where it rests in the crook of his elbow, pressing her fingers against his arm with sharp force.

She looks up at Illya, startled.

“Illya, Gabrielle, this is Jack Deveny,” Victoria says.  “Jack, this is Illya Kuryakin and his fiancee, Gabrielle Teller.”

“A pleasure,” Napoleon says, smile bright and wide.  Gaby wants to slap it from his face. She wants to ask what the _hell_ he thinks he’s doing there.

His expression shades towards a wince when Illya shakes his hand, and she thinks, vindictively, _Good_.

She takes Napoleon’s hand next, and considers digging her nails into his palm.  Swallowing the impulse, she returns his smile. “How good to meet you, Mr. Deveny.”  

Victoria sits at the head of the table, and they all follow suit, Illya pulling out Gaby’s high-backed chair before seating himself.

“Victoria says you were beset by wolves,” Gaby says.

“A whole pack of them,” Napoleon says, more cheerfully than he ought.  “I barely escaped with my life.”

“Fortunate that you found shelter here,” Illya comments.  

Napoleon must sense that Illya means _the exact opposite_ , but his grin doesn’t falter.  “Incredibly.” He turns an adoring gaze towards Victoria.  “Our hostess has been very kind.”

Victoria looks pleased and predatory as she regards Napoleon.  “It was the least I could do,” she demurs. “And I’ve _so_ enjoyed your company, despite the circumstances that brought you here.”

Gaby’s appetite deserts her, but it’s then that Victoria gestures towards the side door, and plates start soaring in, arranging themselves into rotating tiers, all within easy reach.

Unlike the meals at Illya’s, here the food is pre-arranged into individual portions, each serving impeccably presented like miniature works of art, an array of tempting colors and textures.  Napoleon helps himself, and the plates adjust, rearranging to fill the gaps and spinning idly in place, tilting to showcase their layers and garnishes.

Gaby takes her time choosing, exclaiming over each with an enthusiasm she doesn’t feel.  “I can hardly choose! What a selection, this is really too much!”

She gently selects a few plates, seeing Illya pick out meat-heavy dishes beside her.

“So I’m curious, Gabrielle,” Victoria says, gesturing to a mannequin nearby, directing it to fill their glasses with a cool, golden-white wine.  “How did you meet Illya?”

Gaby shoots Napoleon a covert glance as she does so, hoping he will take the cue to change the subject.  

Damn him, he just leans back in his chair, wine glass in hand.  “Yes, please do tell us — you’re such a striking couple that I imagine the story must be _fascinating_.”

Gaby carefully applies the heel of her boot to the toe of his, and presses down until he has to cover his wince with his napkin.

 

* * *

 

“I was trespassing on his lands,” Gaby begins.

Illya forgets about his food while she tells a much-edited version of their first meeting, marveling anew at her cleverness as she weaves their ‘love’ story.  Half truth and half fiction, she delivers it all with genuine enthusiasm, as if storytelling is its own pleasure.

She omits any mention of the thief that accompanied her.  Napoleon must be disappointed, but he seems as enraptured by Gaby’s story as Illya is.

“...and there, in that glorious library, he proposed to me.  And I said yes.”

Illya wishes the story were true.  It sounds so much simpler than the one they find themselves living.  Simpler, and if it were the truth, they would have no reason to be here.

He ventures a look at their hostess.  Coolly, Victoria finishes her dessert and takes a sip of her wine.  

“I wonder…” she muses, fixing Gaby with a piercing look, “...why you did say yes?  Since you aren’t in love with him.”

“I— I beg your pardon?”  Gaby says, the pleasant mood of the table so abruptly broken.  “I _do_ love Illya.”

“No, you don’t.”  Victoria delivers this with cool certainty.  And of course, she would know. She was the one to set the terms of the curse, after all.  “It’s tremendously _generous_ of you to marry Illya for what little time he has left — or is it avarice?  Do you think you will inherit his forgotten title and secluded estate, once he’s gone?”

Gaby’s face is pale.  Across the table, Napoleon is gripping his silverware with white knuckles.

Victoria scans the room and makes a moue of distaste, turning to Illya.  “Come now, you had to know I would see through this farce. My spies inform me of everyone visiting your grounds.  And these two were both spotted there yesterday.” She fixes Gaby with a droll look. “ _Quite_ the whirlwind romance.”

“What of it?” Napoleon interjects, with more bravado than he has any right to.

Victoria smiles, vicious and beautiful in equal measure.  “You’ve lied to me, violating my hospitality…” Magic thrums through the air again.  Beside Illya, Gaby squares her shoulders, as if bracing for an impact. “...therefore, I believe a fitting punishment will be to _keep_ you here, on my terms.”

Illya gets to his feet, snarling, his chair falling to the ground with a crash.  “You cannot—”

“I can, and I shall.  However, in exchange for the entertainment you provided with your story, dear Gabrielle, I will offer you the opportunity to leave with one of your co-conspirators.  But with _only_ one of them.”  Victoria pauses, as if trying to decide between them.  “...and I think I will leave the choice to you.”

Gaby gapes at her.  

Somewhere, deep in the castle, a clock begins to chime.  Victoria tilts her head, hearing it. “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon.  You have until midnight to make your decision.” She gives them all one last icy smile and vanishes, the silk napkin that had been on her lap fluttering to the ground.

 

* * *

 

Illya storms towards the door to the main hall, as fierce and terrifying as when they all first met.  He is too quick for Gaby to catch by the arm, but she calls out, “Illya!” as he reaches for the handle, and he pauses.  “Come back. We have to figure a way out of this. _Together_.”

Illya pauses, his back to them both, a low growl building in his chest.  It erupts into a roar and he takes the closest thing at hand - one of the mannequins, standing silent sentinel - and hurls it against the wall.

Napoleon finds himself flinching, despite himself, at the destruction of such a valuable object.

“There is no way out of this,” Illya says, breathless with fury.  “Not for me.” He wrenches open the door and storms out.

“... _Illya_ ,” Gaby says again, more softly this time.

“Let him go.” Napoleon reaches out to put his hand on her shoulder.  He’s not quite sure when he rounded the table to stand beside her. His feet must have moved of their own accord.  “He’ll come back, or we’ll find him. But give him some time.”

Gaby whirls on him, something of Illya’s fury kindling in her, too.  “Why did you come here? You ruined _everything_.”  She steps closer to him and shoves him back, half a step.  “ _Jack Deveney_.  You couldn’t even give your real name?”

“I was worried about my family.”  It’s half true: Jack Deveny is an alias he uses when he visits seedier parts of the Capital, to avoid rumors circulating back to his father.  It had been a similar instinct of self-preservation that had guided him here. “The bit about the wolves was accurate, though. I came to have a bit of a look around, see if I could find anything out, and they found me, chasing me right up to her gates.”  He grimaces at the memory.

“No less than you deserve,” she tells him, eyes glittering with resentment.

“I came _for you_ ,” he answers.  “I didn’t know she would invite you here, as well.”  And what a shock it had been, to find that Gaby had _accepted_ Victoria’s invitation, to see her arriving on Illya’s arm in brilliant flame-orange, as exotic as a phoenix and as poised as a princess.  Napoleon had found a spark of gratitude to see them both there - yes, even Peril, his determined strength as steady as granite next to Gaby.  Their familiarity had been a balm that had eased the jangling nerves set alight when Napoleon found himself herded into Victoria’s clutches.

Gaby’s shoulders slump.  “...you’re still an idiot,” she says, after a moment.

He huffs a humorless laugh.  “I suppose I am, at that.”

She lifts her chin, defiance sparking in her eyes once more.  “We have until midnight to find a way out of this.”

“...have you considered that perhaps Illya might be right?”

“No,” she answers simply.  “Every spell has an ending, remember?”

He does, but— “Now we have two curses to contend with: Illya’s, and the one on all three of us, for violating her hospitality.”

“And we have eleven hours…”  She paces away from him, going to the open door and shutting it.  “Illya is strong, you’re sly, and I…” She stoops to look down at the battered remains of the mannequin. “...I can do _anything_ with machines.”

Napoleon frowns, considering it.  “Victoria must have a workshop on the grounds somewhere, at least for repairs…”

“And I’m willing to bet that whoever works there does so under duress—”  Gaby reaches into the clockwork guts of the machine, pulling out a part with a practiced twist of her wrist.  “Oh. Oh, _no_.”

She’s gone _very_ pale.

“What is it?” Napoleon asks.

Gaby clenches the piece in her fist and stands, pulling open the door and striding into the hall with a renewed vigor.  “Victoria!” she shouts, her voice echoing eerily in the vast space. “Victoria Vinciguerra! I’ve made my decision!”

Their captor appears in a blink, cool and composed.  “That was quicker than I expected. Who have you chosen?”

Gaby brandishes something sharp and glinting.  “My father,” she spits. “I want to leave with _my father_.”

 

* * *

 

Beyond her fury at Victoria, Gaby is upset with herself.  She should have realized sooner, should have put the pieces together more quickly… but she’d been caught up in _curses_ and _enchanted castles_ and _fae business_ , and the details of her own life, including her father’s disappearance, had faded into mundanity compared to all of it.

She should have known, though: there are stories about the fae abducting clever, slightly mad people.  Which certainly describes her father.

There’d been no way of knowing, however.  Not for sure. Not until Gaby had seen the particular, slightly peculiar configuration of pulleys and gears along the mannequin’s spine, as familiar to her as her own work.

It might as well have been her father’s signature.

Victoria, damn her, actually laughs a little at Gaby’s demand.  “ _Well_.  I wasn’t expecting _that_.”  She seems to give this some thought.  “Unfortunately, he wasn’t part of the deal, and he’s a bit preoccupied at the moment, besides.”

“He’s built _enough_ for you.”  

“Don’t worry, girl.  One way or another, this project will be his last,” Victoria comments with a composure that Gaby finds insulting.  “What about you?” She directs this last to Napoleon, who’s lounging against the door, the picture of indolent indifference.  “Don’t you object to being so callously passed over?”

“I’ve found that Gaby’s mind is her own,” Napoleon responds, equal parts resignation and amusement.  

Victoria returns her gaze to Gaby, arching one eyebrow.  “And what of your fiance?”

Gaby can feel the gear cutting into her hand, she’s gripping it so tightly in her palm.  “As you pointed out, I just met him yesterday.” And this way, she would be leaving neither Napoleon nor Illya alone - maybe they could find a way to work together to escape.

...though, admittedly, that seems like a long shot.

“All right,” Victoria says, spreading her hands wide.  “I will alter the deal: if you help your father finish his current project - it shouldn’t take too long, perhaps a day or two - I will free you both, and keep Napoleon and Illya in your place.”

“I have your word on that?”  Gaby thinks of something. “And— and that you won’t kill either Illya or Napoleon?”

“I can’t curse Illya to death _twice_ , even for violating hospitality,” Victoria points out.  “And… Napoleon, is it? Napoleon is entertaining enough to keep alive.  So yes, you have my word.”

“Then you have mine.”  Gaby gives an apologetic glance to Napoleon, who closes his eyes as if pained.  She can imagine what he thinks of her making yet another magical vow — this time, to a powerful fae.  

There will be no getting out of it, now.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Illya comes back to the dining room to find that only Napoleon remains, seated in Victoria’s chair and pouring himself a generous measure of wine from one of the bottles he’d acquired from the sideboard.  His boots are crossed atop the table.

“...where’s Gaby?” Illya asks, feeling dread curdle the contents of his stomach.

Napoleon laughs bleakly.  “We’ve both been tossed over, I’m afraid.  Gaby’s rescuing her father instead.” He takes a long draught from his glass, draining half of it in one go.  “She discovered that he’s been press-ganged into working for Victoria, turning out those little tin soldiers.”  He gestures at the ruined mannequin lying a few feet away. “How was your tantrum?”

Once his initial rage had subsided, Illya had gone looking for someone, _anyone_ else in the castle, to appeal to.  A courtier, a servant, someone other than Victoria.  All he’d found were countless sentinel mannequins and beautiful, empty rooms.  “Illuminating. I think Victoria is alone here.” He thinks again of his cloak-pin.   _How quickly can those mannequins move?_ he wonders.   _Fast enough to defend their mistress?_

“Even the other fae must find her insufferable.” Napoleon pours himself more wine.  “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Gaby and her father have left, then?”  Illya never had any illusions that Gaby would choose him - his days are numbered, and Napoleon’s are not - but he’d hoped to at least say goodbye.

Napoleon’s boots drop to the floor.  “What? No, no. She’s helping her father on some final project for Victoria before they can both go.”

Illya doesn’t know whether to be worried for Gaby’s sake or relieved for his own.  “What are they building?”

“Damned if I know.”  Napoleon leans forward, staring into his wine pensively.  

Illya rumbles his discontent.  They can’t just sit here, drinking themselves into a stupor.  He gives Napoleon a considering look. The man’s a scoundrel and probably drunk, but he’s the only ally Illya has at hand.  “...want to find out?”

Napoleon’s eyes light up.  “Capital idea. Victoria’s sworn not to kill us, for Gaby’s sake.  Let’s see if she holds to her promise.”

 _Victoria can do worse than kill us_ , Illya almost says, but he bites his tongue and leads the way from the dining room, this time from the door to the kitchens, in the hope that they will be less likely to run into their hostess from that direction.

His earlier explorations had been haphazard and brief, but he has a sense of the layout.  There’s no blacksmith’s forge on the premises, for obvious reasons, but he suspects that Victoria would keep her pet artificer closer than that regardless, somewhere secure and easy to access…

“Dungeons,” he says aloud.

Despite the fact that they’ve found themselves in the _kitchens_ , Napoleon nods agreement.  “I broke out of a Duke’s gaol once,” he says conversationally.  Illya gives him an incredulous look, and Napoleon grins. “Case of mistaken identity, I assure you.”  Illya remains dubious. “There’ll be an entrance in the cellars, so that the servants can bring them food.  That’s how I got out.”

Illya begins to warm to the idea of having a scoundrel on his side, in these particular circumstances.  

They search the cellars, but find nothing but food stores: bags and barrels stacked neatly along the walls, jars of preserves on shelves, an extensive wine cellar that Napoleon lingers in, lovingly stroking some of the finer vintages, and an enchanted cold-room with hanging sides of pork and beef.

It is in this last that something tugs at Illya, low in the gut, a pull of sympathetic magic that feels strangely familiar.  He pauses, his breath hanging in the air and the walls glittering with frost around him. Already halfway out the door, Napoleon gives him an incredulous look.

Illya places the sensation: _his father’s watch is nearby_.

One of the meat hooks is empty, heavily patinated but for the deepest part of its curve, which is polished to a high sheen.  Curious, Illya tugs at it, and the chain lengthens, a mechanism in the ceiling grinding and a hidden door in the wall opening wide.

“ _Well,_ then,” Napoleon says, staring into the dim passageway.

Distantly, they can hear voices and the sounds of hammers on metal.

 

* * *

 

Gaby hadn’t known what to expect.  If she’d had time to give it any thought, she might have pictured a cluttered little workshop, half-finished mannequins scattered in parts across every flat surface.

But she hadn’t been given the time.  Victoria had whisked her away in a whirl of magic almost as soon as Gaby had made her vow.

The space that materializes around them is a vast cavern, great irregular stone walls arching to meet overhead, where sunlight filters through running water.  They seem to be _beneath_ the river, magic keeping it from coursing down in a waterfall onto the array of scaffolds and tarpaulin-covered structures below.

It takes a moment for the sheer scale of it to register.  When it does, Gaby catches her breath. Whatever the project is, it’s _immense_.

She spots a familiar figure far below, tinkering at a workbench, welding brass tubes in an intricate configuration.  “Papa!” she shouts.

He does not hear her, and continues his work undisturbed.  She climbs down the staircase carved into the stone, feet flying over the uneven surfaces until she is at his side.  He looks up just in time to catch her in his arms. “Gaby! What are you _doing_ here?” he exclaims.

She pulls away, feeling tears prick at her eyes.  “Rescuing you.”

“No, no,” he says, hands shaking on her shoulders.  “You shouldn’t _be_ here.  How did you _find_ me?  You should be safe at home.”

“No gratitude?” Victoria interjects, having followed at a more sedate pace.  “ _Tch_ , and here I went to all this trouble. I can whisk her away again…”

“No,” Gaby’s father says, pushing himself between the two women.  “I don’t want her to leave my sight, now that she’s here.”

“Excellent.” Victoria smiles.  “Because she’s here to help you finish your masterpiece.”

“What _is_ it?” Gaby asks, craning her neck to peer up at the structure.  It makes even less sense from this vantage point.

Victoria strolls over to one end and pulls away a corner of the tarpaulin with a flourish, pride and triumph glowing on her face.

Gaby’s never seen a dragon before.  She’s seen illustrations, heard whispered rumors and drunken tales, but never believed they existed.  But there one is, a great gleaming gold skull, eyeless and covered in faceted crystal scales. It’s so improbable that Gaby simply stares for a long moment.

Its teeth are as long as her forearm.  Victoria strokes one of its enormous horns with possessive affection.

“You… _built_ this?”  Gaby asks her father.

He nods guiltily, but Gaby can see an undercurrent of poorly-hidden satisfaction at her awe.  He always did want for a patron who’d allow him to indulge his wilder fancies. “The smaller mannequins—” he gestures to those working the forge, carrying supplies from one side of the cavern to the other, polishing diamonds as large as Gaby’s palm, sweeping the floors of scrap "–were just prototypes.  Victoria wanted something…”

“...more _grand,_ ” Victoria finishes for him.

“What’s it _for?_ ”  Gaby can’t help but ask.

“Whatever I please,” Victoria answers with relish.  Gaby understands, then. The mannequins run on alchemy, bound by different rules of magic.  This is no mere curiosity, no mundane household servant, but a weapon of violence, of conquest.  Whether Victoria uses it against mortals or against other fae, the result will be the same: _war_.

Gaby gives her father an incredulous look.  He has the good grace to look abashed. “I didn’t think—” he starts, but drops his gaze, pressing his lips together against the excuse he’d begun to offer.

Gaby closes her eyes for a long moment, letting herself feel the bone-deep disappointment that washes over her.  And then she opens her eyes again, sighing in resignation. “A deal’s a deal,” she declares. “What needs to be done?”

 

* * *

 

Gaby has shucked off the top layer of her persimmon riding habit, leaving her in the bright split skirt and a once-crisp, now-wilted blouse with sleeves she’s rolled up and collar that she’s undone as she’s worked.  She and her father are bent low over large schematics, talking intently about something, their voices lost in the rest of the noise in the cavern.

Napoleon and Illya watch until they’ve seen enough, until they put the pieces together for themselves.

Napoleon leans back on his heels, half-hidden in the shadowy passage from the cellars, giving a low, quiet whistle.  “We’ll have to sabotage it, of course,” he murmurs to Illya.

Illya nods.  “Once Gaby and her father are gone,” he adds.  “I want them safe first.”

Napoleon has some choice words about the elder Teller’s part in this whole mess, but he agrees with his own silent nod anyway.

They slip back down the passage, and Napoleon steals the oldest vintage he can find from the wine cellar as on their way to the dining hall.  Illya doesn’t comment on the acquisition as he might have, once.

“Napoleon, Illya,” Victoria greets them when they return.  “I’d wondered where you disappeared off to.”

Napoleon lifts the bottle, brazenly.  “I thought we’d celebrate.”

She lifts one perfectly arched eyebrow.  “Celebrate?”

“Why not?  There are worse place to spend the rest of one’s life,” Napoleon points out, “and worse company to spend it with.”  He grabs two glasses and takes the seat closest to Victoria.

“I need some air,” Illya says, excusing himself from the room.  Neither Victoria nor Napoleon seem to notice. Illya doubts that Victoria will fall for Napoleon’s charming deflections, but she seems amused enough to entertain him, which is enough for now.

And while they are both preoccupied, Illya intends to test the limits of his leash.

He finds that he can get about halfway across the river before a sharp, strange tug pulls at his gut and he finds himself, sopping wet, on the bank next to the castle again.  He can traverse the orchards, but cannot cross the hedges into the forest. He can climb the front gates, but when he jumps down, he finds himself on the side of the castle drive instead of on the mountain road.

It’s not much, but it’s better than being trapped inside the main building.

He stares through the gates, into the woodland beyond, towards his castle.  He should have let Gaby go. His reckless hope has doomed them all.

There is movement in the forest, barely visible in the dim orange dusk, and Illya bristles, expecting Victoria’s wolves.

Instead, a complement of riders approach, dressed all in black, their weapons glinting with the dull finish of cold iron instead of steel.  Illya stares, astonished. The lead rider catches sight of him, and the whole party pauses, conferring in voices too low for even Illya’s keen ears.

One man separates from the rest, sword drawn.  The others train crossbows on Illya, and he freezes.

“Tell your mistress that the Sheriff wishes a word with her,” the man says.  He is older, grey at his temples beneath his helm, and slight, but his carriage speaks of rank and experience at arms.

“She is _not_ my mistress,” Illya snarls.

The man looks surprised.  “Then who are you, and what are you doing here?”

Illya draws himself up to his full height, summoning his own nobility like a cloak around him.  “I am Illya Kuryakin, of the royal house, cursed and captive, with no loyalty to Victoria Vinciguerra.”

The man breaks out into a broad smile.  “Then I supposed I am here to rescue you.  Well met, Your Excellency. My name is Waverly.”

 

* * *

 

Victoria had not been false; the remaining work is slight, tricky but easier with two clever minds set to the task instead of one.  The automatons prove useful in their own ways, but are limited to the precise wording of the instructions they’re given - they can do no more, and no less, than what can be simply explained in a sentence or two.

Gaby finds them unnerving.  When their tasks are done, they simply… _stop_ in place, limbs returning to a default pose, legs and arms and spine straight.  While being instructed, they turn their faceless heads in the direction of the speaker, staring without eyes or expression.

She works with them as little as possible, leaving her father to assign them tasks as necessary.

The sunlight from above dims and disappears, replaced by will-o-the-wisps that descend from the ceiling, hovering far above as they illuminate the cavern with their cold brilliance.

A mannequin delivers food at some point, and Gaby eats the bread and fruit and cheese absently, studying the plans for the dragon-machine intently.

 _There must be some way to weaken it_ , she thinks.   _Some flaw I may add that will be overlooked at first but will prove fatal at a key moment…_

Unsurprisingly, it is _very_ well designed.  Like the mannequins, it is built of fairy gold, difficult to work and harder to injure without cold iron at hand.  It is covered in hundreds, perhaps thousands of overlapping diamond scales, a fortune by mortal reckoning but a pittance to the fae.

Gaby tucks a cast-off into the pocket of her skirt, beside Illya’s watch, thinking that if Victoria does let them go, it will solve their financial problems.

(She also thinks that Napoleon might be proud of her pilfering.  But thoughts of Illya and Napoleon send a guilty pang through her heart, so she puts them from her mind and focuses on her work.)

Long after sunset, Gaby finds her father’s hands shaking as he threads wire through a series of pulleys, and she reaches out to still them.  “We should sleep,” she tells him. “...Victoria _does_ let you sleep, doesn’t she?”

He nods.  “I… I have a cot, just over there…”  He points to an alcove off to one side, and Gaby shakes her head.

“Victoria!” she calls.

The echo of her voice hasn’t even subsided when their captor appears.  “Are you finished?”

“We’ll finish in the morning,” Gaby tells her.  “But we need to sleep. In _proper_ beds.”

Victoria frowns.  “I’m afraid I can’t oblige.  In fact, if you have so little left to do, I’ll have to ask you to press on and finish tonight.”

There’s a tension underlying Victoria’s words, and it doesn’t seem to be borne of her usual cruelty.  In fact, if Gaby didn’t know better, she’d say that Victoria was _agitated_ about something.

“What’s happened?” Gaby asks, her own anxiety catching like dry tinder.  “Are Illya and Napoleon all right?”

“I’ve kept my word,” Victoria retorts.  “Now keep yours.”

And then she disappears.

 

* * *

 

When Victoria excuses herself - “I have to go check on our resident tinkerers, darling, but I’ll be back in a flash.” - Napoleon lets out a sigh of relief.  He’s spent hours diverting Victoria with stories of his travels and exploits, over drinks and then dinner, and while he’s not unaccustomed to the task, so rarely has it been for such high stakes as these.

Not for the first time, he wonders where Illya got himself off to.  It’s devilishly hard to play a solo act for so long. He snorts, imagining Peril trying to charm _anyone_.

He pours himself some more wine and wanders off towards the windows.  A graceful balcony looks over the lawn, and he spies lights flickering in the distance.

_Hang on._

The lights look like… torches?

He abandons his glass and flings open the doors to the balcony, peering into the night.

Illya appears below, his smile bright and sharp and welcome.  He straightens from the four-legged gallop that brought him near, and calls out, “Catch!”  Something dark and glinting pinwheels through the gloom, clattering to the stone beside Napoleon.

He picks it up, marveling at the cold iron sword in his hand.  “How—”

Illya gathers himself, then lands at Napoleon’s side, barely winded despite the distance he’d just leapt.  “Aid has come,” he answers. “The letter Gaby wrote had a message for the Sheriff. He’s come with his men to deliver justice.”

 _Damn._  Napoleon _knew_ he ought to have broken the seal on that letter.

The torchlight draws closer, and Napoleon spies the guard-mannequins arraying at the main entrance, readying to repel the interlopers.  “Gaby,” Napoleon says. “She’s still—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Illya agrees immediately, fangs flashing in another fierce grin.  “Let’s rescue her.”

It’s the least they can do, after she’s summoned the cavalry.

 

* * *

 

Gaby sends her father to rest on the cot, but continues to work on her own, swallowing her discomfort with the mannequins.  They lift off a panel of scales so that she can crawl into the chest of the beast, linking up some final connections to the ceramic engine that acts as its heart.  Having no skill with alchemy, she has to trust that the mechanism will work as needed.

Come to think of it, her father doesn’t know alchemy, either.  Gaby imagines a series of craftsmen in this space, each fulfilling their part before being discarded.  What had happened to them, when they were done? What would have happened to her father, if she had not discovered him here?

It’s an unpleasant thought.

She crawls backwards out of the crowded space, and returns to the workbench.  She’s about to work on the wrist mechanism - it keeps sticking shut - when Victoria appears at her side.

“Will it fly?” Victoria asks coldly.

Gaby nearly jumps out of her skin.  “Yes, but its talons won’t work, and—”

“It has _teeth_ , doesn’t it?” Victoria gestures broadly at the dragon.  The scaffolds and tarps vanish, leaving only the great hulking beast in the center of the cavern.

Gaby stares, never having seen it all at once before.  It’s magnificent, if terrible, too, all glinting scales and gleaming gold and sharp spines running down its long, whiplike tail.  

Victoria climbs into the seat affixed atop its shoulders, waving her hands again.  The river parts above, and the dragon unfurls its wings. It beats them once, twice, each movement sending a gust of wind that knocks over chairs, clears workbenches of papers, and sends smaller tools and supplies skidding.  Gaby ducks into the alcove where her father is sitting up on his cot, blinking blearily at the chaos.

And then, the dragon lifts off, rising up until it passes the will-o-the-wisps, higher and higher until it disappears into the darkness above.

The river closes again, and the cavern is silent.

“Is… is it finished?” Gaby’s father asks.

“As finished as it’s going to get,” Gaby assures him.

A smaller, sharper clamor approaches through one of the passageways at the top of the stairs, and Gaby recognizes Illya’s and Napoleon’s voices amidst the din.  Relief floods through her, and she clasps her father’s hand, pulling him to his feet and leading him across the cavern through the detritus of their work.

 _They came back for me!_ she thinks, heart in her throat, glad beyond words.

High above, a mannequin is hurled from one of the landings to crash, mangled and immobile, to the stone floor.  Napoleon appears at the edge, peering down after it. His face breaks out into a bright grin when he spots her. “All right down there?”

“Yes!” Gaby scrambles up the steps, trusting her father to follow.  “But — Victoria has a dragon!”

Napoleon looks gobsmacked.  “...she has a _what?_ ”  Behind him, Illya lets out a roar.  “Hang on, these mannequins fight like devils.”

“The King gets word of them, you’ll never want for a commission again,” Gaby mutters to her father, too weary to keep the acid from adding bite to her words.

“They were meant to be _servants_.”  She can’t see his face, but his voice sounds appropriately rueful.

“Oh, they’ll serve.”  She stops on a landing, pushing her sweaty hair out of her face.  The plaits she’d worn earlier on her ride are quite unraveled. “In the army, and on the sea, and—”

Illya tumbles into view, rolling down the stairs.  Gaby has to take a few steps back so that he doesn’t crash into her legs.  “Hello.” He smiles at her, upside-down and sideways. She stoops to steady him as he clambers to his feet, and he squeezes her hand with his, a quick press of broad fingers before he’s off again, up the stairs and into the skirmish above.

Gaby’s father stares after Illya.  “Who — what was _that?_ ”  

“His name is Illya, he’s been cursed, and… we might also be engaged.”  Gaby gives her father a weak smile. “You’ve missed a lot, Papa.”

 

* * *

 

One by one, the mannequins fall before Napoleon’s blade and Illya’s brute strength.  They aren’t clever, but they’re quick and tenacious - more than one continues fighting even after Illya’s wrenched off its arm or Napoleon’s managed to disable a vulnerable joint.

 _Damn Udo Teller,_ Napoleon thinks.   _If he’d been less of a genius or more sensible, this wouldn’t be so bloody difficult._

The last mannequin falls, leaving Illya and Napoleon surrounded by piles of glittering scrap, each worth more than the annual income of Napoleon’s family.  He nudges one with his boot as Gaby cautiously climbs up the last flight of stairs to join them.

“There will be more in the castle.”  Illya sounds pained and out of breath.

Napoleon frowns at him.  “Are you all right, Peril?”

“I’m fine.”  Illya straightens, squaring his broad shoulders.

Strange.  Napoleon could’ve sworn Illya was taller.  When they’d first met, their height difference had seemed daunting, Illya looming a foot or more over Napoleon.  But here, their eyes are within inches of being level.

Admittedly, Napoleon _had_ been at a disadvantage at their first meeting.  He must be misremembering.

He’s pretty sure he recalls one detail correctly, however.  He turns to Gaby. “I’m sorry, did you say that Victoria has a _dragon?_ ”

“My father built one for her, like he did the mannequins.”  Gaby shoots her father an acerbic look.

Udo lifts his chin, and Napoleon sees where Gaby learned the gesture.  “What can be built, can be dismantled. As you have discovered with these.”  He looks down at the mannequins, expression clouded.

“We should find Waverly before Victoria does,” Illya declares.

Napoleon nods agreement, and follows him as they make their way to the cellar passage.

“Waverly came?”  Behind them, Gaby sounds genuinely surprised.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Napoleon asks.

“You know my family’s reputation,” she replies.  “No one seemed to care when Papa disappeared…”

“ _I_ cared,” Napoleon points out.

She doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that.

Waverly and his men are in the great hall when they arrive, milling around with mixed shock and dismay writ large on their faces.  Some are piling furniture against the door. Heaps of broken mannequins lie strewn about, limbs scattered across the starscape floor.

“Napoleon!” Waverly spots them and strides over.  “Illya told me you were here. Damned good to see you, your father’s been worried sick.”

Napoleon laughs.  “I’ll take your word for it.  What’s the news?”

“You won’t believe it when I tell you.”

“Victoria's dragon?” Gaby tilts her head.

“Ah, Miss Teller.  I’d thank you for the letter but it seems to have omitted a few key details.  For instance, yes, the _massive bloody dragon_ that cut my force down to half its size.”

“Do you have bowmen with iron-tipped arrows?” she asks.

Waverly frowns.  “Yes, but they bounce off its hide like we’re shooting at a stone wall.”

“That’s because you don’t know where to shoot.”  Gaby turns to Napoleon and Illya. “We need to get to one of the towers and lure Victoria close enough…”

 

* * *

 

The climb to the top of the tower saps the rest of Gaby’s strength, depleted as it is after a day so filled with incredible challenges.  The last landing has a lovely window-seat, plush velvet cushion and a soft wool blanket beckoning unfairly, but she ignores it and presses on.  Knowing what happens next is more important than her sore muscles.

She is almost the last to reach the top.  Behind her, Illya leans heavily on the banister, moving slowly.  He notices her concerned glance and shakes his head. “Your father’s machines are very… efficient.  But I will be all right. Go on ahead, I will catch up.”

With one last lingering frown, she does so.

A semicircle of men stand by the parapets, wind whipping their hair and the torches they hold.  In front of them stands a line of archers, readying their bows with iron-tipped arrows. Most of their are quivers are running low; they will have a limited number of chances to try Gaby’s plan.

Napoleon is separated from the rest, peering into the night.  He looks back at Waverly. “Ready?”

“Archers!” Waverly calls, and his men snap into position, moving as one.  “Ready.”

“Victoria!” Napoleon shouts into the ink-black night.

Gaby thinks she hears Victoria’s laugh, distant and eerie on the wind.

“Victoria, don’t you want to show off your newest trinket?”

An immense blur of gold drops out of the sky, and the archers fire, bolts ricocheting off the mechanical monster’s hide.  Its tail sweeps across the top of the tower, knocking a few torches to the stones.

“It’s moving too fast,” Gaby mutters.  “Napoleon, can you slow her down?”

Waverly gestures for the archers to get back into position.

Napoleon shouts again into the night, “Very pretty, Victoria!  But will it be enough, I wonder, to make up for the fact that you’ll die alone?”  He pauses. “At least you won’t die as an animal in the dirt, the way your husband did!”

The dragon lifts into view, Victoria glaring from atop it.  Gaby thinks that she might curse Napoleon, laws of magic bedamned.  Her mount rises slowly, with great beats of its powerful wings, its neck curling back, poised to strike like a serpent.

And as it does, its chest is bared to the archers, who train on the empty spot near its heart, where Gaby had instructed the mannequins to lift away a panel of scales while she worked.  Literal-minded, they had done so, but Gaby hadn’t remembered to have them replace it, and so the fairy-gold skeleton of the behemoth is exposed.

“Loose!” Waverly calls.  A stream of arrows arc towards the dragon, and its ribs dissolve like smoke, ceramic heart cracking audibly.

Victoria’s eyes go wide as her mount drops out of the sky from beneath her.  And, before she can vanish, one last arrow buries itself in _her_ chest.  With her final breath, she shrieks wordlessly, as if she’s trying to draw the last of her magic close to her for a final dying curse.  Every stone beneath their feet trembles, the air in their lungs going thin and sour for an instant.

And then Victoria plummets, too, down and down and out of sight in the darkness.  The air returns, sweeter and tasting of spring after a thaw. The battlements settle underfoot.

Gaby lets out a breath, turning to share a smile with Illya — who is still as he was before.  “Oh no, Illya.” She steps closer to him, touching his arm, his shoulder, hoping that the fur will fall away at her touch.

It doesn’t.  The curse remains.

Illya bows his horned head, covering her hands with his own.  “It’s all right, Gaby. I never really expected it to go away.”

Napoleon joins them, his face stony.  “How long do you have?”

“...not long,” Illya answers.

 _A week at most_ , she remembers him saying.   _No more._ “It’s not fair.”  Her words come out quiet and bitter.  “After all of this, killing Victoria… and this is all the time we get?  We only just met. We’ll never… you’ll never…” Her voice falters and fails, and she presses a hand to her mouth, face going cold with errant tears.

Napoleon tucks her under his arm, offering solid comfort, and his own hand reaches out to Illya’s other shoulder.

Something trembles in the air, and passes.

 

* * *

 

“Go back to the village,” Gaby tells her father and Waverly.  “I’m going to return to Illya’s castle until… well. Just for a little while.”

Her father protests, but Waverly looks sympathetic.

“I’ll accompany them,” Napoleon adds.  “Tell my father I’ll be along in my own time.”

Waverly laughs.  “He won’t take that well.”

“He can take it however he likes.”

“You know, if he tosses you out on your ear, I could use a man with your sword arm.”  Waverly looks approving.

Napoleon grins.  “I might just take you up on that, whatever my father decides.”

They find a sitting room on the first floor and make camp for the night there, no one willing to separate from the group in the now-dark, eerily-empty castle for the few hours left until dawn.  Everyone is reluctant to find out whether the wolves are still roaming the forest. One of Waverly’s men starts a fire in the hearth, feeding it bits of a broken side table in lieu of the now-absent magic that once kept it burning.

Illya curls up in a corner, drawing his cloak around himself.  His ribs ache from a blow from one of Victoria’s mannequins, and his ankle throbs after his tumble down the stairs.  He won’t find a comfortable position, whether he takes one of the couches or no.

Napoleon brings over an armchair and stretches out his feet towards the fire, studiously ignoring Illya’s bewildered look at his decision to stay so close.  Gaby steals a couch cushion and sets it on the floor next to Illya, curling up atop it, poking and prodding him until he adjusts himself to her liking, then promptly falls asleep against his shoulder.

Illya stares down at her, then looks up at Napoleon.  The other man has an inscrutable expression and says nothing.

Waverly takes the largest couch, Gaby’s father one of the loveseats, and the rest of the men claim chairs and spots on the floor by the fire with minimal squabbling.  Soon, most are asleep, with a guard standing sentry at each door.

Rest is more elusive for Illya.  He’s not sure how he feels about Gaby and Napoleon’s pity, but he’s also reluctant to reject it outright.  Would it be so terrible to swallow his pride for the few days he has left, and enjoy their company while he can?

Gaby snuffles a little in her sleep.

He will let them accompany him to his castle, and then he will send them away.  He has faced a third of his life alone; he can face the end alone, too.

Decided, he closes his eyes and waits for dawn.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Gaby and Napoleon walk out to the stables to saddle their horses.  They watch the mist drift back from the landscape, slowly burning away in the morning sun.  It’s going to be a hot day. Napoleon is glad that they’ll be riding in the shade. He’ll be gladder to see the last of this place.

He wonders what will happen to it, without Victoria’s magic holding it together, keeping it pristine.  The woods will reclaim it, most likely. It will disintegrate into ruin and rumor, like Illya’s castle.

On impulse, Napoleon stoops to pick up a stone and throws it through the nearest window, which gives way with a crash.  

Gaby stumbles, jolted out of her own pensive mood.  “What was that for?”

Napoleon has no words for the anger filling his chest.  “I needed to break something.”

“Oh.”  She tilts her head, looking at the broken window.  Then, after a moment, she crouches to fetch her own rock, which she sends through a second pane.  It shatters, the pieces falling with musical violence. “That _is_ satisfying.”

Napoleon considers getting another rock, and then another, and then another, until he’s pulled the whole castle to rubble.  He looks at Gaby. She would probably help him do it.

Gaby meets his eyes and gives him a small, sad smile.

Not for the first time, he wants to kiss her.  He wants to take her in his arms and feel her sigh against his lips, wants to turn the sadness in her eyes into warmth and laughter.  He curls his hands into fists at his side so that he doesn’t actually reach for her.

He’s learned his lesson about unwanted overtures.  And he’s well aware that her affections are… _preoccupied_ elsewhere, if not totally committed.

“We should get going.”  He turns on his heel and heads towards the stables.  “We haven’t much time.”

“No, we don’t.”  Next to him, Gaby reaches into the pocket of her much-rumpled riding skirt, pulling out something of tarnished silver.

Illya’s watch.  Napoleon looks away quickly.  “How long, do you think?”

“Days.”  She sounds like the doctor who’d seen to Napoleon’s mother, all those years ago.

The stable doors don’t open at their approach.  Napoleon hauls one aside, wishing he had Illya’s strength, to rip it from its hinges.  “Can’t you _fix_ it?”

“I don’t think it works like that.”  She lifts her tack from its hooks. “Besides, I’ve already inspected it.  There’s nothing wrong with the mechanism.”

The bay swings his head over the stall door, nickering in greeting.  Napoleon pets his long, soft nose. “Good morning, handsome, ready to get out of here?”  He gets a gentle nuzzle in return. “Yeah, me, too.”

Gaby and Napoleon ready their horses, exchanging few words, mostly to the animals.  As they lead them out, Napoleon pauses. “What will you do… after?”

Gaby looks away, over the rolling lawn.  “Return to my father’s shop. Ensure that he doesn’t build anything like _those_ machines again.”  She gestures to the wreckage of the dragon; Waverly has already inspected it and confirmed Victoria’s death.  “What about you?”

“Oh, I’ll find something to do,” Napoleon says airily.  Gaby frowns at him, and he lets the mask slip. “...I’ll have to.  I can’t work for my father anymore.”

Gaby nods.  “Good. Because he’ll find himself in gaol, one of these days.  And I don’t want to see you there with him.”

He can’t resist.  “Why, Gaby, that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She steps close to dig an elbow into his side, and they are laughing by the time they meet up with the rest of the group.

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” Gaby’s father asks at the crossroads.

Gaby suppresses a sigh.  “I’ll be _fine_ , Papa.”   _It’ll only be a few days_ , she doesn’t add.  Speaking it aloud, as she had done with Napoleon earlier, only makes it feel more real, and it’s already too difficult to bear.  She can feel the watch in her pocket, ticking slow as molasses. “Don’t worry about me.”

She’s survived this long without him.

They part with one last embrace.  Napoleon, Illya, and she are left alone on the path to Illya’s castle.

They are silent for a few long minutes.  “...what was your life like, before you were cursed?” Napoleon asks eventually.

“Happy… for a time,” Illya answers.  He tells them of a childhood filled with love, and what came after.  How the joy had slowly curdled to bitterness, the later years of his youth filled with resentment and unkindness.

He tells it like a story that happened to someone else, a long time ago.  Watching them both, Gaby sees sympathy on Napoleon’s face, and something else besides.  From what she knows of the Mayor, Illya’s tale must hit close to home.

It’s as unlike her own experience as she can imagine.   _How strange the world, that we three should find ourselves together._

Pausing in his narrative, Illya tips his head back, scenting the wind.  “...we’re being followed.”

“What?” Gaby asks.  A moment later, she spots a familiar silhouette skulking through the underbrush.  

“Wolves!” Napoleon shouts, urging his horse into a gallop.

One of the beasts appears on the path ahead of them.  It’s too late.

They are surrounded.

 

* * *

 

Napoleon turns his horse away from the wolf that’s poised to intercept their trajectory, but another leaps from behind an outcropping, its teeth snapping at his heels.  He draws his sword, slashing at it, cutting it deeply in the shoulder, but there’s another beside it and a third approaching from the other side.

The creatures are huge, their heads reaching to Napoleon’s knees even though he’s riding.  He knocks a set of snapping teeth from closing on his thigh, and hears a satisfying yelp as his horse kicks backwards, launching one of the wolves sidelong into a tree.

Gaby cries out, and Napoleon whirls just in time to see her horse rearing.  She falls to the ground in a tumble of persimmon, scrambling away from the wolves and her horse’s frantic reeling.  Grabbing a fallen branch, she whips one wolf across the face and knocks the legs out from another, but the pack has noticed that she’s vulnerable, and is closing in.

With a roar, Illya lands next to her, claws and fangs bared.  He catches a wolf mid-air as it leaps and throws it against another with enough force that neither animal gets up again.  

Satisfied that Gaby’s safe, Napoleon drives his blade between the ribs of one of his own attackers, and its falling body wrenches the sword from his grasp.  The third wolf is behind him, clawing and biting at his horse’s flanks, and he drives his dagger through its eye.

When he looks up again, Illya is facing off against the largest wolf Napoleon has ever seen.  The fight is a blur of rent fur and gnashing fangs and slashing claws, but when it’s done, Illya has the wolf lifted over his head, dead in his grasp.

The remaining wolves seem to notice that they’ve been bested, and they scatter off into the forest, most of them bleeding and limping with injuries of their own.  Illya roars again, throwing the wolf down to the dirt.

And then he sways on his feet, falling to his knees.  Napoleon spots the injuries on Illya’s legs, his arms, his torso, before he collapses completely, sagging against the base of a tree.

Gaby scrambles through the underbrush to reach him.  “No,” she cries. “No, no, we were supposed to have _days_.”

Illya’s breaths are ragged and raw.  Napoleon can see bone through the gashes on his chest.  

He swings down off his horse and kneels at Illya’s other side, pulling off his cloak to press it ineffectually at the wounds.  The heavy wool is soaked through in less than a minute. “Come _on_ ,” he mutters.

“Illya, _Illya_.”  Gaby is pleading, now.  “Please, open your eyes.  Look at me.” She strokes her hand over his forehead; blood-matted fur sticks to her palm.

Napoleon keeps pressure on Illya’s wounds.  “Stay with us, Peril.” His hands are shaking.  He presses harder.

Illya coughs.  It’s an ugly sound.  Bright crimson blood bubbles up at the corner of his mouth.  

Gaby wipes it away with a corner of her sleeve.  “You can’t go yet.” She bends down, kisses Illya’s forehead, his temple, his cheek.  “You _can’t._ ”  She kisses his mouth, and all Napoleon can do is bow his head to rest against hers as Illya’s warm, sticky blood pools around his fingers.

 _I don’t want him to die_ , Napoleon thinks.   _He can’t die.  I—_

The moment becomes suspended, stretched, as the three of them sit huddled on the forest floor.  Time _bends_ around them, and the few pinpricks of sunlight that find them through the forest canopy become blinding, burrowing heat that almost burns Napoleon’s skin through his clothes.

He finds himself frozen in place for a long, long moment.

And then everything goes white, with the sound of breaking glass and ringing bells drowning out any other sound, except the pounding of his heart.

 

* * *

 

Illya blinks, his eyes adjusting to normal light once more.

It doesn’t hurt to breathe.

In fact, he feels as hale and hearty as he ever has, and the realization makes him sit up in surprise.  Gaby is thrown off balance, and Napoleon shifts back on his heels, his hands bloodied to the elbows.

 _I should be dead,_ Illya thinks.   _How am I still alive?_

They’re both staring at him.

“What?” His voice comes out wrong, and his hand flies to his throat.  He catches sight of it as it moves, and lifts it to peer closer.

It’s a _hand,_ not a paw.  An ordinary, human hand.

“ _What?_ ” he asks again.

“...we broke the curse?” Napoleon asks.

Gaby grabs Napoleon’s hand, wonder breaking out across her face.  “We _broke the curse!_ ”  A fleeting frown furrows her brow.  “ _How_ did we break the curse?”

Illya ducks his head and runs a hand through his hair.  (His _hand!_ Through his _hair!_ )  “Ah… I needed someone to fall in love with me.”

Gaby flushes from neckline to hairline, and she bites her lip.  “... _oh_.”

Napoleon coughs.  He’s blatantly avoiding eye contact with either of them.

Illya stares at them.  “Did you... _both—_?”

Gaby breaks out into laughter, incredulous and infectious all at once.  Illya laughs with her, and even Napoleon’s chuckle joins them after a moment.

Gaby sobers first.  “...oh, but what are we going to _do_.”

Still grinning, Napoleon lifts one of her hands in his and presses a kiss against her knuckles.  “We should go back to Illya’s castle. And figure it out from there.” His expression makes it clear that he has _very_ specific ideas in mind.  

Gaby’s blush deepens.  “We _have_ proven skilled at improvising in the past…”

Illya stands and holds out a hand to each of them.  They take them, and he pulls them to their feet. “If the curse is broken, my home might be restored.  My home, my… oh no, my _family_.”

Napoleon laughs again.  “I know the feeling. Should we all just run away together?”

“I would…”  Illya looks down at his feet _(feet!)_.  “But first, I need boots.”

  
  


— END —

 

 


End file.
